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﻿Title: Jack Hinton: The Guardsman
Author: Lever, Charles James
Language: English
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JACK HINTON,
THE GUARDSMAN.
By Charles James Lever
With Illustrations by Browne
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1857.
PREFACE.
Very few words of preface will suffice to the volume now presented to my
readers. My intention was to depict, in the early experiences of a young
Englishman in Ireland, some of the almost inevitable mistakes incidental
to such a character. I had so often myself listened to so many absurd
and exaggerated opinions on Irish character, formed on the very
slightest acquaintance with the country, and by persons, too, who, with
all the advantages long intimacy might confer, would still have been
totally inadequate to the task of a rightful appreciation, that I deemed
the subject one where a little “reprisal” might be justifiable.
Scarcely, however, had I entered upon my story, than I strayed from the
path I had determined on, and, with very little reference to my
original intention, suffered Jack Hinton to “take his chance amongst the
natives,” and with far too much occupation on his hands to give time for
reflecting over their peculiarities, or recording their singular traits,
I threw him into the society of the capital, under the vice-royalty of a
celebrated Duke, all whose wayward eccentricities were less marked than
the manly generosity and genuine honesty of his character. I introduced
him into a set where, whatever purely English readers may opine, I have
wonderfully little exaggerated; and I led him down to the West to meet
adventures which every newspaper, some twenty-five years ago, would show
were by no means extravagant or strange.
As for the characters of the story, there is not one for which I did not
take a “real sitter;” at the same time, I have never heard one single
correct guess as to the types that afforded them. To Mrs. Paul Rooney,
Father Tom Loftus, Bob Mahon, O’Grady, Tipperary Joe, and even Corny
himself, I have scarcely added a touch which nature has not given them,
while assuredly I have failed to impart many a fine and delicate tint
far above the “reach of--‘_my_--art,” and which might have presented
them in stronger light and shadow than I have dared to attempt. Had I
desired to caricature English ignorance as to Ireland in the person of
my Guardsman, nothing would have been easier; but I preferred merely
exposing him to such errors as might throw into stronger relief the
peculiarities of Irishmen, and, while offering something to laugh at,
give no offence to either. The volume amused me while I was writing
it,--less, perhaps, by what I recorded, than what I abstained from
inditing; at all events, it was the work of some of the pleasantest
hours of my life, and if it can ever impart to any of my readers a
portion of the amusement some of the real characters afforded myself, it
will not be all a failure. That it may succeed so far is the hope of the
reader’s
Very devoted servant,
CHARLES LEVER.
Casa Capponi, Florence, March, 1857.
JACK HINTON, THE GUARDSMAN
CHAPTER I. A FAMILY PARTY
It was on a dark and starless night in February, 181--, as the last
carriage of a dinner-party had driven from the door of a large house
in St. James’s-square, when a party drew closer around the drawing-room
fire, apparently bent upon that easy and familiar chit-chat the presence
of company interdicts.
One of these was a large and fine-looking man of about five-and-forty,
who, dressed in the full uniform of a general officer, wore besides the
ribbon of the Bath; he leaned negligently upon the chimney-piece, and,
with his back towards the fire, seemed to follow the current of his own
reflections: this was my Father.
Beside him, but almost concealed in the deep recess of a well-cushioned
arm-chair, sat, or rather lay, a graceful figure, who with an air of
languid repose was shading her fine complexion as well from the glare
of the fire as from the trying brilliancy of an Argand lamp upon the
mantelpiece. Her rich dress, resplendent with jewels, while it strangely
contrasted with the careless ease of her attitude, also showed that she
had bestowed a more than common attention that day upon her toilette:
this, fair reader, was my Mother.
Opposite to her, and disposed in a position of rather studied
gracefulness, lounged a tall, thin, fashionable-looking man, with a
dark olive complexion, and a short black moustache. He wore in the
button-hole of his blue coat the ribbon of St. Louis. The Count de
Grammont, for such he was, was an _émigré_ noble, who, attached to the
fortunes of the Bourbons, had resided for some years in London, and
who, in the double capacity of adviser of my father and admirer of my
lady-mother, obtained a considerable share of influence in the family
and a seat at its councils.
At a little distance from the rest, and apparently engaged with her
embroidery, sat a very beautiful girl, whose dark hair and long lashes
deepened the seeming paleness of features a Greek sculptor might have
copied. While nothing could be more perfect than the calm loveliness of
her face and the delicate pencilling of her slightly-arched eyebrows,
an accurate observer could detect that her tremulous lip occasionally
curled with a passing expression of half scorn, as from time to time
she turned her eyes towards each speaker in turn, while she herself
maintained a perfect silence. My cousin, Lady Julia Egerton, had indeed
but that one fault: shall I venture to call by so harsh a name that
spirit of gentle malice which loved to look for the ludicrous features
of everything around her, and inclined her to indulge what the French
call the “_esprit moqueur_” even on occasions where her own feelings
were interested?
The last figure of the group was a stripling of some nineteen years,
who, in the uniform of the Guards, was endeavouring to seem perfectly
easy and unconcerned, while it was evident that his sword-knot divided
his attention with some secret thoughts that rendered him anxious and
excited: this was Myself!
A silence of some moments was at length broken by my mother, who, with
a kind of sigh Miss O’Neill was fond of, turned towards the Count, and
said,
“Do confess, Count, we were all most stupid to-day. Never did a dinner
go off so heavily. But it’s always the penalty one pays for a royal
Duke. _A propos_, General, what did he say of Jack’s appointment?”
“Nothing could be more kind, nothing more generous than his Royal
Highness. The very first thing he did in the room was to place this
despatch in my hands. This, Jack,” said my father, turning to me, “this
is your appointment as an extra aide-de-camp.”
“Very proper indeed,” interposed my mother; “I am very happy to think
you’ll be about the Court. Windsor, to be sure, is stupid.”
“He is not likely to see much of it,” said my father, dryly.
“Oh, you think he’ll be in town then?”
“Why, not exactly that either.”
“Then what can you mean?” said she, with more of animation than before.
“Simply, that his appointment is on the staff in Ireland.”
“In Ireland!” repeated my mother, with a tragic start. “In Ireland!”
“In Ireland!” said Lady Julia, in a low, soft voice.
“_En Irlande!_” echoed the Count, with a look of well got up horror,
as he elevated his eyebrows to the very top of his forehead; while
I myself, to whom the communication was as sudden and as unexpected,
assumed a kind of soldier-like indifference, as though to say, “What
matters it to me? what do I care for the rigours of climate? the snows
of the Caucasus, or the suns of Bengal, are quite alike; even Ireland,
if his Majesty’s service require it.”
“Ireland!” repeated my mother once more; “I really never heard anything
so very shocking. But, my dear Jack, you can’t think of it. Surely,
General, you had presence of mind to decline.”
“To accept, and to thank most gratefully his Royal Highness for such
a mark of his favour, for this I had quite presence of mind,” said my
father, somewhat haughtily.
“And you really will go, Jack?”
“Most decidedly,” said I, as I put on a kind of Godefroy de Bouillon
look, and strutted about the room.
“And pray what can induce you to such a step?”
“_Oui, que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère?_’” said the Count.
“By Jove!” cried my father, hastily, “you are intolerable; you wished
your boy to be a Guardsman in opposition to my desire for a regiment on
service. You would have him an aide-de-camp: now he is both one and the
other. In Heaven’s name, what think ye of getting him made a lady of the
bedchamber? for it’s the only appointment I am aware of----”
“You are too absurd, General,” said my mother, pettishly. “Count,
pray touch the bell; that fire is so very hot, and I really was quite
unprepared for this piece of news.”
“And you, Julia,” said I, leaning over the back of my cousin’s chair,
“what do you say to all this?”
“I’ve just been thinking what a pity it is I should have wasted all
my skill and my worsted on this foolish rug, while I could have been
embroidering a gay banner for our young knight bound for the wars.
‘_Partant pour la Syrie_,’” hummed she, half pensively, while I could
see a struggling effort to suppress a laugh. I turned indignantly
away, and walked towards the fire, where the Count was expending his
consolations on my mother.
“After all, _Miladi_, it is not so bad as you think in the provinces;
I once spent three weeks in Brittany, very pleasantly indeed: _oui,
pardieu_, it’s quite true. To be sure, we had Perlet, and Mademoiselle
Mars, and got up the _Précieuse Ridicules_ as well as in Paris.”
The application of this very apposite fact to Ireland was clearly
satisfactory to my mother, who smiled benignly at the speaker, while my
father turned upon him a look of the most indescribable import.
“Jack, my boy!” said he, taking me by the arm, “were I your age, and had
no immediate prospect of active service, I should prefer Ireland to any
country in the world. I have plenty of old friends on the staff there.
The Duke himself was my schoolfellow----”
“I hope he will be properly attentive,” interrupted my mother. “Dear
Jack, remind me to-morrow to write to Lady Mary.”
“Don’t mistake the country you are going to,” continued my father; “you
will find many things very different from what you are leaving; and,
above all, be not over ready to resent, as an injury, what may merely be
intended as a joke: your brother officers will always guide you on these
points.”
“And above all things,” said my mother, with great earnestness, “do not
adopt that odious fashion of wearing their hair. I’ve seen members of
both Houses, and particularly that little man they talk so much of, Mr.
Grattan, I believe they call him----”
“Make your mind perfectly easy on that head, my lady,” said my father,
dryly, “your son is not particularly likely to resemble Henry Grattan.”
My cousin Julia alone seemed to relish the tone of sarcasm he spoke
in, for she actually bestowed on him a look of almost grateful
acknowledgment.
“The carriage, my lady,” said the servant. And at the same moment my
mother, possibly not sorry to cut short the discussion, rose from her
chair.
“Do you intend to look in at the Duchess’s, General?”
“For half an hour,” replied my father; “after that I have my letters to
write. Jack, you know, leaves us to-morrow.”
“‘Tis really very provoking,” said my mother, turning at the same time a
look towards the Count.
“_A vos ordres, Madame_,” said he, bowing with an air of most
deferential politeness, while he presented his arm for her acceptance.
“Good night, then,” cried I, as the party left the room; “I have so much
to do and to think of, I shan’t join you.” I turned to look for Lady
Julia, but she was gone, when and how I knew not; so I sat down at the
fire to ruminate alone over my present position, and my prospects for
the future.
*****
*****
*****
These few and imperfect passages may put the reader in possession of
some, at least, of the circumstances which accompanied my outset in
life; and if they be not sufficiently explicit, I can only say, that he
knows fully as much of me as at the period in question I did of myself.
At Eton, I had been what is called rather a smart boy, but incorrigibly
idle; at Sandhurst, I showed more ability, and more disinclination to
learn. By the favour of a royal Duke (who had been my godfather), my
commission in a marching regiment was exchanged for a lieutenancy in
the Guards; and at the time I write of I had been some six months in
the service, which I spent in all the whirl and excitement of London
society. My father, who, besides being a distinguished officer, was one
of the most popular men among the clubs, my mother, a London beauty
of some twenty years’ standing, were claims sufficient to ensure me no
common share of attention, while I added to the number what, in my own
estimation at least were, certain very decided advantages of a purely
personal nature.
To obviate, as far as might be, the evil results of such a career, my
father secretly asked for the appointment on the staff of the noble
Duke then Viceroy of Ireland, in preference to what my mother
contemplated--my being attached to the royal household. To remove
me alike from the enervating influence of a mother’s vanity, and the
extravagant profusion and voluptuous abandonment of London habits, this
was his object. He calculated, too, that by new ties, new associations,
and new objects of ambition, I should be better prepared, and more
desirous of that career of real service to which in his heart he
destined me. These were his notions, at least; the result must be
gleaned from my story.
CHAPTER II. THE IRISH PACKET
A few nights after the conversation I have briefly alluded to, and
pretty much about the same hour, I aroused myself from the depression of
nearly thirty hours’ sea-sickness, on hearing that at length we were in
the bay of Dublin. Hitherto I had never left the precincts of the narrow
den denominated my berth; but now I made my way eagerly on deck, anxious
to catch a glimpse, however faint, of that bold coast I had more than
once heard compared with, or even preferred to, Naples. The night,
however, was falling fast, and, worse still, a perfect down-pour of rain
was falling with it; the sea ran high, and swept the little craft
from stem to stern; the spars bent like whips, and our single topsail
strained and stretched as though at every fresh plunge it would part
company with us altogether. No trace or outline of the coast could
I detect on any side; a deep red light appearing and disappearing at
intervals, as we rode upon or sank beneath the trough of the sea, was
all that my eye could perceive: this the dripping helmsman briefly
informed me was the “Kish,” but, as he seemed little disposed for
conversation, I was left to my unassisted ingenuity to make out whether
it represented any point of the capital we were approaching or not.
The storm of wind and rain increasing at each moment, drove me once more
back to the cabin, where, short as had been the period of my absence,
the scene had undergone a most important change. Up to this moment my
sufferings and my seclusion gave me little leisure or opportunity to
observe my fellow travellers. The stray and scattered fragments of
conversation that reached me, rather puzzled than enlightened me. Of the
topics which I innocently supposed occupied all human attention, not a
word was dropped; Carlton House was not once mentioned; the St. Leger
and the Oaks not even alluded to; whether the Prince’s breakfast was to
come off at Knights-bridge or Progmore, no one seemed to know, or even
care; nor was a hint dropped as to the fashion of the new bearskins
the Guards were to sport at the review on Hounslow. The price of
pigs, however, in Ballinasloe, they were perfect in. Of a late row
in Kil--something, where one half of the population had massacred the
other, they knew everything, even to the names of the defunct. A few
of the better dressed chatted over country matters, from which I
could glean that game and gentry were growing gradually scarcer; but a
red-nosed, fat old gentleman, in rusty black and high boots, talked
down the others by an eloquent account of the mawling that he, a
certain Father Tom Loftus, had given the Reverend Paul Strong, at a late
controversial meeting in the Rotunda.
[Illustration: 2-0044]
Through all this “bald, disjointed chat,” unceasing demands were made
for bottled porter, “matarials,” or spirits and wather, of which, were
I to judge from the frequency of the requests, the consumption must have
been awful.
There would seem something in the very attitude of lying down that
induces reflection, and, thus stretched at full length in my berth, I
could not help ruminating upon the land I was approaching, in a spirit
which, I confess, accorded much more with my mother’s prejudices than my
father’s convictions. From the few chance phrases dropped around me,
it appeared that even the peaceful pursuits of a country market, or
the cheerful sports of the field, were followed up in a spirit of
recklessness and devilment; so that many a head that left home without
a care, went back with a crack in it. But to return once more to the
cabin. It must be borne in mind that some thirty odd years ago the
passage between Liverpool and Dublin was not, as at present, the rapid
flight of a dozen hours, from shore to shore; where, on one evening,
you left the thundering din of waggons, and the iron crank of cranes
and windlasses, to wake the next morning with the rich brogue of Paddy
floating softly around you. Far from it! the thing was then a voyage.
You took a solemn leave of your friends, you tore yourself from the
embraces of your family, and, with a tear in your eye and a hamper on
your arm, you betook yourself to the pier to watch, with an anxious and
a beating heart, every step of the three hours’ proceeding that
heralded your departure. In those days there was some honour in being
a traveller, and the man who had crossed the Channel a couple of times
became a kind of Captain Cook among his acquaintances.
The most singular feature of the whole, however, and the one to which
I am now about to allude, proceeded from the fact that the steward in
those days, instead of the extensive resources of the present period,
had little to offer you, save some bad brandy and a biscuit, and
each traveller had to look to his various wants with an accuracy and
foresight that required both tact and habit. The mere demands of hunger
and thirst were not only to be considered in the abstract, but a point
of far greater difficulty, the probable length of the voyage, was to be
taken into consideration; so that you bought your beefsteaks with your
eye upon the barometer, and laid in your mutton by the age of the moon.
While thus the agency of the season was made to react upon your stomach,
in a manner doubtless highly conducive to the interests of science, your
part became one of the most critical nicety.
Scarcely were you afloat, and on the high seas, when your appetite was
made to depend on the aspect of the weather. Did the wind blow fresh and
fair, you eat away with a careless ease and a happy conscience, highly
beneficial to your digestion. With a glance through the skylight at
the blue heaven, with a sly look at the prosperous dog-vane, you helped
yourself to the liver wing, and took an extra glass of your sherry.
Let the breeze fall, however, let a calm come on, or, worse still,
a trampling noise on deck, and a certain rickety motion of the craft
betoken a change of wind, the knife and fork fell listlessly from your
hand, the unlifted cutlet was consigned to your plate, the very spoonful
of gravy you had devoured in imagination was dropped upon the dish, and
you replaced the cork in your bottle, with the sad sigh of a man who
felt that, instead of his income, he has been living on the principal of
his fortune.
Happily, there is a reverse to the medal, and this it was to which now
my attention was directed. The trip as occasionally happened, was a
rapid one; and while under the miserable impression that a fourth part
of the journey had not been accomplished, we were blessed with the
tidings of land. Scarcely was the word uttered, when it flew from mouth
to mouth; and I thought I could trace the elated look of proud and happy
hearts, as home drew near. What was my surprise, however, to see the
enthusiasm take another and very different channel. With one accord a
general rush was made upon the hampers of prog. Baskets were burst open
on every side. Sandwiches and sausages, porter bottles, cold punch,
chickens, and hard eggs, were strewn about with a careless and reckless
profusion; none semed too sick or too sore for this general epidemic
of feasting. Old gentlemen sat up in their beds and bawled for beef;
children of tender years brandished a drumstick. Individuals who but a
short half-hour before seemed to have made a hearty meal, testified by
the ravenous exploits of their appetites to their former forbearance and
abstemiousness. Even the cautious little man in the brown spencer, who
wrapped up the remnant of his breakfast in the _Times_, now opened his
whole store, and seemed bent upon a day of rejoicing. Never was such a
scene of riotous noise and tumultuous mirth. Those who scowled at each
other till now, hob-nobbed across the table; and simpering old maids
cracked merry thoughts with gay bachelors, without even a passing fear
for the result. “Thank Heaven,” said I, aloud, “that I see all this with
my sense and my intellects clear about me.” Had I suddenly awoke to such
a prospect from the disturbed slumber of sickness» the chances were ten
to one I had jumped overboard, and swam for my life. In fact, it
could convey but one image to the mind, such as we read of, when some
infuriated and reckless men, despairing of safety, without a hope left,
resolve upon closing life in the mad orgies of drunken abandonment.
Here were the meek, the tranquil, the humble-minded, the solitary, the
seasick, all suddenly converted into riotous and roystering feasters.
The lips that scarcely moved, now blew the froth from a porter cup with
the blast of a Boreas: and even the small urchin in the green face and
nankeen jacket, bolted hard eggs with the dexterity of a clown in a
pantomime. The end of all things (eatable) had certainly come. Chickens
were dismembered like felons, and even jokes and witticisms were bandied
upon the victuals. “What, if even yet,” thought I, “the wind should
change!” The idea was a malicious one, too horrible to indulge in. At
this moment the noise and turmoil on deck apprised me that our voyage
was near its termination.
[Illustration: 2-0049]
The night, as I have said, was dark and stormy. It rained too--as it
knows only how to rain in Ireland. There was that steady persistence,
that persevering monotony of down-pour, which, not satisfied with
wetting you to the skin, seems bent upon converting your very blood into
water. The wind swept in long and moaning gusts along the bleak pier,
which, late and inclement as it was, seemed crowded with people.
Scarcely was a rope thrown ashore, when we were boarded on every side,
by the rigging, on the shrouds, over the bulwarks, from the anchor to
the taffrail; the whole population of the island seemed to flock in upon
us; while sounds of welcome and recognition resounded on all sides--
“How are you, Mister Maguire?” “Is the mistress with you?” “Is that you,
Mr. Tierney?” “How are you, ma’am?” “And yourself, Tim?” “Beautiful,
glory be to God!” “A great passage, entirely, ma’am.” “Nothing but rain
since I seen you.” “Take the trunks up to Mrs. Tun-stall; and, Tim,
darling, oysters and punch for four.”
“Great mercy!” said I, “eating again!”
“Morrisson, your honour,” said a ragged ruffian, nudging me by the
elbow.
“Reilly, sir; isn’t it? It’s me, sir--the Club. I’m the man always
drives your honour.”
“Arrah, howld your prate,” said a deep voice, “the gentleman hasn’t time
to bless himself.”
“It’s me, sir; Owen Daly, that has the black horse.”
“More by token, with a spavin,” whispered another; while a roar of
laughter followed the joke.
“A car, sir--take you up in five minutes.”
“A chaise, your honour--do the thing dacently.”
Now, whether my hesitation at this moment was set down by the crowd of
my solicitors to some doubt of my solvency or not, I cannot say; but
true it is, their tone of obsequious entreaty gradually changed into one
of rather caustic criticism.
“Maybe it’s a gossoon you’d like to carry the little trunk.”
“Let him alone; it’s only a carpet-bag; he’ll carry it himself.”
“Don’t you see the gentleman would rather walk; and as the night is
fine, ‘tis pleasanter--and--cheaper.”
“Take you for a fipp’ny bit and a glass of sparits,” said a gruff voice
in my ear.
By this time I had collected my luggage together, whose imposing
appearance seemed once more to testify in my favour, particularly the
case of my cocked-hat, which to my ready-witted acquaintances proclaimed
me a military man. A general rush was accordingly made upon my luggage;
and while one man armed himself with a portmanteau, another laid hands
on a trunk, a third a carpet-bag, a fourth a gun-case, and so on until
I found myself keeping watch and ward over my epaulet-case and my
umbrella, the sole remnant of my effects. At the same moment a burst
of laughter and a half shout broke from the crowd, and a huge, powerful
fellow jumped on the deck, and, seizing me by the arm, cried out,
“Come along now, Captain, it’s all right. This way--this way, sir.”
“But why am I to go with you?” said I, vainly struggling to escape his
grasp.
“Why is it?” said he, with a chuckling laugh; “reason enough--didn’t we
toss up for ye, and didn’t I win ye.”
“Win me!”
“Ay; just that same.”
By this time I found myself beside a car, upon which all my luggage was
already placed.
“Get up, now,” said he.
“It’s a beautiful car, and a dhry cushion,” added a voice near, to the
manifest mirth of the bystanders.
Delighted to escape my tormentors, I sprang up opposite to him, while
a cheer, mad and wild enough for a tribe of Iroquois, yelled behind us.
Away We rattled over the pavement, without lamp or lantern to guide our
path, while the sea dashed its foam across our faces, and the rain beat
in torrents upon our backs.
“Where to, Captain?” inquired my companion, as he plied his whip without
ceasing.
“The Castle; you know where that is?”
“Faix I ought,” was the reply. “Ain’t I there at the levees. But howld
fast, your honour; the road isn’t good; and there is a hole somewhere
hereabouts.”
“A hole! For Heaven’s sake, take care. Do you know where it is?”
“Begorra! you’re in it,” was the answer; and, as he spoke, the horse
went down head foremost, the car after him; away flew the driver on
one side, while I myself was shot some half-dozen yards on the other, a
perfect avalanche of trunks, boxes, and portmanteaus rattling about
my doomed head. A crashing shower of kicks, the noise of the flying
splinters, and the imprecations of the carman, were the last sounds I
heard, as a heavy imperial full of books struck me on the head, and laid
me prostrate.
Through my half-consciousness, I could still feel the rain as it fell in
sheets; the heavy plash of the sea sounded in my ears; but, somehow, a
feeling like sleepiness crept over me, and I became insensible.
CHAPTER III. THE CASTLE
When I next came to my senses, I found myself lying upon a sofa in a
large room, of which I appeared the only occupant. A confused and misty
recollection of my accident, some scattered fragments of my voyage, and
a rather aching sensation in my head, were the only impressions of which
I was well conscious. The last evening I spent at home was full in my
memory, and I could not help thinking over my poor mother’s direful
anticipations in my vain endeavours to penetrate what I felt had been a
misfortune of some kind or other. The mystery was, however, too deep for
my faculties; and so, in despair of unravelling the past, I set myself
to work to decipher the present. The room, I have already said, was
large; and the ceiling, richly stuccoed and ornamented, spoke of a day
whose architecture was of a grand and massive character. The furniture,
now old and time-worn, had once been handsome, even magnificent--rich
curtains of heavy brocaded silk, with deep gold fringes, gorgeously
carved and gilded chairs, in the taste of Louis XV.; marble consoles
stood between the windows, and a mirror of gigantic proportions occupied
the chimney-breast. Years and neglect had not only done their worst, but
it was evident that the hand of devastation had also been at work. The
marbles were cracked; few of the chairs were available for use; the
massive lustre, intended to shine with a resplendent glare of fifty
wax-lights, was now made a resting-place for chakos, bearskins, and
foraging caps; an ominous-looking star in the looking-glass bore witness
to the bullet of a pistol; and the very Cupids carved upon the frame,
who once were wont to smile blandly at each other, were now disfigured
with cork moustaches, and one of them even carried a short pipe in his
mouth. Swords, sashes, and sabretasches, spurs and shot-belts, with
guns, fishing-tackle, and tandem whips, were hung here and there upon
the walls, which themselves presented the strangest spectacle of all,
there not being a portion of them unoccupied by caricature sketches,
executed in every imaginable species of taste, style, and colouring.
Here was a field-day in the Park, in which it was easy to see the
prominent figures were portraits: there an enormous nose, surmounted
by a grenadier cap, was passing in review some trembling and terrified
soldiers. In another, a commander of the forces was seen galloping
down the lines, holding on by the pommel of the saddle. Over the sofa I
occupied, a levee at the Castle was displayed, in which, if the company
were not villanously libelled, the Viceroy had little reason to be proud
of his guests. There were also dinners at the Lodge; guards relieved by
wine puncheons dressed up like field-officers; the whole accompanied by
doggrel verses explanatory of the views.
The owner of this singular chamber had, however, not merely devoted his
walls to the purposes of an album, but he had also made them perform the
part of a memorandum-book. Here were the “meets” of the Kildare and the
Dubber for the month of March; there, the turn of duty for the garrison
of Dublin, interspersed with such fragments as the following:--“Mem. To
dine at Mat Kean’s on Tuesday, 4th.--Not to pay Hennesy till he settles
about the handicap.--To ask Courtenay--for Fanny Burke’s fan; the same
Fanny has pretty legs of her own.--To tell Holmes to have nothing to do
with Lanty Moore’s niece, in regard to a reason!--Five to two on Giles’s
two-year-old, if Tom likes. N.B. The mare is a roarer.--A heavenly day;
what fun they must have!--may the devil fire Tom O’Flaherty, or I would
not be here now.” These and a hundred other similar passages figured on
every side, leaving me in a state of considerable mystification, not as
to the character of my host, of which I could guess something, but as to
the nature of his abode, which I could not imagine to be a barrack-room.
[Illustration: 2-00053]
As I lay thus pondering, the door cautiously opened, and a figure
appeared, which, as I had abundant leisure to examine it, and as the
individual is one who occasionally turns up in the course of my history,
I may as well take the present opportunity of presenting to my reader.
The man who entered, scarcely more than four feet and a half high, might
be about sixty years of age. His head, enormously disproportioned to
the rest of his figure, presented a number of flat surfaces, as though
nature had originally destined it for a crystal. Upon one of these
planes the eyes were set; and although as far apart as possible, yet
upon such terms of distance were they, that they never, even by an
accident, looked in the same direction. The nose was short and snubby;
the nostrils wide and expanded, as if the feature had been pitched
against the face in a moment of ill-temper, and flattened by the
force. As for the mouth, it looked like the malicious gash of a blunt
instrument, jagged, ragged, and uneven. It had not even the common-place
advantage of being parallel to the horizon, but ran in an oblique
direction from right to left, enclosed between a parenthesis of the
crankiest wrinkles that ever human cheek were creased by. The head would
have been bald but for a scanty wig, technically called a “jasy,” which,
shrunk by time, now merely occupied the apex of the scalp, where it
moved about with every action of the forehead and eyebrows, and was
thus made to minister to the expression of a hundred emotions that other
men’s wigs know nothing about. Truly, it was the strangest peruke that
ever covered a human cranium. I do not believe that another like it
ever existed. It had nothing in common with other wigs. It was like its
owner, perfectly _sui generis_. It had not the easy flow and wavy curl
of the old beau. It had not the methodical precision and rectilinear
propriety of the elderly gentleman. It was not full, like a lawyer’s,
nor horse-shoed, like a bishop’s. No. It was a cross-grained,
ill-tempered, ill-conditioned old scratch, that looked like nothing
under heaven save the husk of a hedgehog.
The dress of this strange figure was a suit of very gorgeous light
brown livery, with orange facings, a green plush waistcoat and shorts,
frogged, flapped, and embroidered most lavishly with gold lace, silk
stockings, with shoes, whose enormous buckles covered nearly the entire
foot, and rivalled, in their paste brilliancy, the piercing brightness
of the wearer’s eye. Having closed the door carefully behind him, he
walked towards the chimney, with a certain air of solemn and imposing
dignity that very nearly overcame all my efforts at seriousness; his
outstretched and expanded hands, his averted toes and waddling gait,
giving him a most distressing resemblance to the spread eagle of
Prussia, had that respectable bird been pleased to take a promenade in a
showy livery. Having snuffed the candles, and helped himself to a pinch
of snuff from a gold box on the mantelpiece, he stuck his arms, nearly
to the elbows, in the ample pockets of his coat, and with his head
a little elevated, and his under-lip slightly protruded, seemed to
meditate upon the mutability of human affairs, and the vanity of all
worldly pursuits.
I coughed a couple of times to attract his attention, and, having
succeeded in catching his eye, I begged, in my blandest imaginable
voice, to know where I was.
“Where are ye, is it?” said he, repeating my question in a tone of the
most sharp and querulous intonation, to which not even his brogue could
lend one touch of softness,--“where are ye? and where would you like
to be? or where would any one be that was disgracing himself, or
blackguarding about the streets till he got his head cut and his clothes
torn, but in Master Phil’s room: devil other company it’s used to. Well,
well! It is more like a watchhouse nor a gentleman’s parlour, this
same room. It’s little his father, the Jidge”--here he crossed himself
piously--“it is little he thought the company his son would be keeping;
but it is no matter. I gave him warning last Tuesday, and with the
blessin’ o’ God----”
The remainder of this speech was lost in a low muttering grumble, which
I afterwards learnt was his usual manner of closing an oration. A few
broken and indistinct phrases being only audible, such as--“Sarve you
right”--“Fifty years in the family”--“Slaving like a negur”--“Oh, the
Turks! the haythins!”
Having waited what I deemed a reasonable time for his honest indignation
to evaporate, I made another effort to ascertain who my host might be.
“Would you favour me,” said I, in a tone still more insinuating, “with
the name of----”
“It’s my name, ye want? Oh, sorrow bit I am ashamed of it! Little as you
think of me, Cornelius Delany is as good a warrant for family as many a
one of the dirty spalpeens about the Coort, that haven’t a civiler word
in their mouth than Cross Corny! Bad luck to them for that same.”
This honest admission as to the world’s opinion of Mister Delany’s
character was so far satisfactory as it enabled me to see with whom I
had to deal; and, although for a moment or two it was a severe struggle
to prevent myself bursting into laughter, I fortunately obtained the
mastery, and once more returned to the charge.
“And now, Mister Delany, can you inform me how I came here? I remember
something of an accident on my landing; but when, where, and how, I am
totally ignorant.”
“An accident!” said he, turning up his eyes; “an accident, indeed!
that’s what they always call it when they wring off the rappers, or bate
the watch: ye came here in a hackney-coach, with the police, as many a
one came before you.”
“But where am I?” said I, impatiently.
“In Dublin Castle; bad luck to it for a riotous, disorderly place.”
“Well, well,” said I, half angrily, “I want to know whose room is this?”
“Captain O’Grady’s. What have you to say agin the room? Maybe you’re
used to worse. There now, that’s what you got for that. I’m laving the
place next week, but that’s no rayson----”
Here he went off, _diminuendo_, again, with a few flying imprecations
upon several things and persons unknown.
Mr. Delany now dived for a few seconds into a small pantry at the end of
the room, from which he emerged with a tray between his hands, and two
decanters under his arms.
“Draw the little table this way,” he cried, “more towards the fire, for,
av coorse, you’re fresh and fastin’; there now, take the sherry from
under my arm--the other’s port: that was a ham, till Captain Mills cut
it away, as ye see--there’s a veal pie, and here’s a cold grouse--and,
maybe, you’ve eat worse before now--and will again, plaze God.”
I assured him of the truth of his observation in a most conciliating
tone.
“Oh, the devil fear ye,” was the reply, while he murmured somewhat
lower, “the half of yees isn’t used to meat twice in the week.”
“Capital fare this, Mr. Delany,” said I, as, half famished with long
fasting, I helped myself a second time.
“You’re eating as if you liked it,” said he, with a shrug of his
shoulders.
“Upon my word,” said I, after throwing down a bumper of sherry, “that’s
a very pleasant glass of wine; and, on the whole, I should say, there
are worse places than this in the world.”
A look of unutterable contempt--whether at me for my discovery, or at
the opinion itself, I can’t say--was the sole reply of my friend; who,
at the same moment, presuming I had sufficient opportunities for
the judgment I pronounced, replaced the decanters upon the tray, and
disappeared with the whole in the most grave and solemn manner.
Repressing a very great inclination to laughter, I sat still; and a
silence of a few moments ensued, when Mr. Delany walked towards the
window, and, drawing aside the curtains, looked out. All was in darkness
save on the opposite side of the court-yard, where a blaze of light fell
upon the pavement from over the half shutters of an apparently spacious
apartment. “Ay, ay, there you go; hip, hip, hurrah! you waste more
liquor every night than would float a lighter; that’s all you’re good
for. Bad luck to your Grace--making fun of the people, laughing and
singing as if the potatoes wasn’t two shillings a stone.”
“What’s going on there?” said I.
“The ould work, nather more nor less. The Lord-Liftinnant, and the
bishops, and the jidges, and all the privy councillors roaring drunk.
Listen to them. May I never, if it isn’t the Dean’s voice I hear--the
ould beast; he is singing ‘The Night before Larry was stretched.’”
“That’s a good fellow, Corny--Mr. Delany I mean--do open the window for
a little, and let’s hear them.”
“It’s a blessed night you’d have the window open to listen to a set of
drunken devils: but here’s Master Phil; I know his step well It’s long
before his father that’s gone would come tearing up the stairs that way
as if the bailiffs was after him; rack and ruin, sorrow else, av I never
got a place--the haythins! the Turks!”
Mr. Delany, who, probably from motives of delicacy, wished to spare his
master the pain of an interview, made his exit by one door as he came in
at the other. I had barely time to see that the person before me was in
every respect the very opposite of his follower, when he called out in a
rich, mellow voice,
“All right again, I hope, Mr. Hinton; it’s the first moment I could get
away; we had a dinner of the Privy Council, and some of them are rather
late sitters; you’re not hurt, I trust?”
“A little bruised or so, nothing more; but pray, how did I fall into
such kind hands?”
“Oh! the watchmen, it seems, could read, and, as your trunks were
addressed to the Castle, they concluded you ought to go there also. You
have despatches, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said I, producing the packet; “when must they be delivered?”
“Oh, at once. Do you think you could make a little change in your dress,
and manage to come over? his Grace always likes it better; there’s no
stiffness, no formality whatever; most of the dinner-party have gone
home; there are only a few of the government people, the Duke’s friends,
remaining, and, besides, he’s always kind and good-natured.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” replied I, as I rose from the sofa; “I put
myself into your hands altogether.”
“Well, come along,” said he; “you’ll find everything ready in this
room. I hope that old villain has left hot water. Corny! Corny, I say!
Confound him, he’s gone to bed, I suppose.”
Having no particular desire for Mr. Delany’s attentions, I prevailed on
his master not to disturb him, and proceeded to make my toilette as well
as I was able.
“Didn’t that stupid scoundrel come near you at all?” cried O’Grady.
“Oh yes, we have had a long interview; but, somehow, I fear I did not
succeed in gaining his good graces.”
“The worst-tempered old villain in Europe.”
“Somewhat of a character, I take it.”
“A crab-tree planted in a lime-kiln, cranky and cross-grained; but he
is a legacy, almost the only one my father left me. I’ve done my best to
part with him every day for the last twelve years, but he sticks to me
like a poor relation, giving me warning every night of his life, and
every morning kicking up such a row in the house that every one is
persuaded I am beating him to a jelly before turning him out to starve
in the streets.”
“Oh, the haythins! the Turks!” said I, slyly.
“Confound it!” cried he, “the old devil has been opening upon you
already; and Jet, with all that, I don’t know how I should get on
without Corny; his gibes, his jeers, his everlasting ill-temper, his
crankiness that never sleeps, seem to agree with me: the fact is, one
enjoys the world from all its contrasts. The olive is a poor thing in
itself, but it certainly improves the smack of your Burgundy. In this
way Corny Delany does me good service. Come, by Jove, you have not been
long dressing. This way: now follow’ me.” So saying, Captain O’Grady
led the way down the stairs to the colonnade, following which to the
opposite side of the quadrangle we arrived at a brilliantly lighted
hall, where several servants in full-dress liveries were in waiting.
Passing hastily through this, we mounted a handsome staircase, and,
traversing several ante-chambers, at length arrived at one whose
contiguity to the dinner-room I could guess at from the loud sound of
many voices. “Wait one moment here,” said my companion, “until I speak
to his Grace.” He disappeared as he spoke, but before a minute had
elapsed he was again beside me. “Come this way; it’s all right,” said
he. The next moment I found myself in the dinner-room.
The scene before me was altogether so different from what I had
expected, that for a moment or two I could scarce do aught else than
stand still to survey it. At a table which had been laid for about forty
persons, scarcely more than a dozen were now present. Collected together
at one end of the board, the whole party were roaring with laughter at
some story of a strange, melancholy-looking man, whose whining
voice added indescribable ridicule to the drollery of his narrative.
Grey-headed general officers, grave-looking divines, lynx-eyed lawyers,
had all given way under the irresistible impulse, and the very table
shook with laughter.
“Mr. Hinton, your Excellency,” said O’Grady for the third time, while
the Duke wiped his eye with his napkin, and, pushing his chair a little
back from the table, motioned me to approach.
“Ah, Hinton, glad to see you; how is your father?--a very old friend of
mine, indeed; and Lady Charlotte--well, I hope? O’Grady tells me
you’ve had an accident--something slight, I trust. So these are the
despatches.” Here he broke the seal of the envelope, and ran his eye
over the contents. “There, that’s your concern.” So saying, he pitched
a letter across the table to a shrewd-looking personage in a horse-shoe
wig. “They won’t do it, Dean, and we must wait. Ah!--so they don’t like
my new commissioners; but, Hinton, my boy, sit down. O’Grady, have you
room there? A glass of wine with you.”
“Nothing the worse of your mishap, sir?” said the melancholy-looking man
who sat opposite to me.
I replied by briefly relating my accident.
“Strange enough,” said he, in a compassionate tone, “your head should
have suffered; your countrymen generally fall upon their legs in
Ireland.” This was said with a sly look at the Viceroy, who, deep in his
despatches, paid no attention to the allusion.
“A very singular thing, I must confess,” said the Duke, laying down the
paper. “This is the fourth time the bearer of despatches has met with an
accident. If they don’t run foul of a rock in the Channel, they are sure
to have a delay on the pier.”
“It is so natural, my Lord,” said the gloomy man, “that the carriers
should stop at the Pigeon-house.”
“Do be quiet, Curran,” cried the Duke, “and pass round the decanter.
They’ll not take the duty off claret, it seems.”
“And Day, my Lord, won’t put the claret on duty; he has kept the wine
at his elbow for the last half-hour. Upon my soul, your Grace ought to
knight him.”
“Not even his Excellency’s habits,” said a sharp, clever-looking man,
“would excuse his converting Day into Knight.”
Amid a shower of smart, caustic, and witty sayings, droll stories,
retort and repartee, the wine circulated freely from hand to hand; the
presence of the Duke adding fresh impulse to the sallies of fun and
merriment around him. Anecdotes of the army, the bench, and the bar,
poured in unceasingly, accompanied by running commentaries of the
hearers, who never let slip an opportunity for a jest or a rejoinder.
To me, the most singular feature of all this was, that no one seemed too
old or too dignified, too high in station, or too venerable from office,
to join in this headlong current of conviviality. Austere churchmen,
erudite chief-justices, profound politicians, privy councillors,
military officers of high rank and standing, were here all mixed up
together into one strange medley, apparently bent on throwing an air
of ridicule over the graver business of life, and laughing alike at
themselves and the world. Nothing was too grave for a jest, nothing too
solemn for a sarcasm. All the soldier’s experience of men and manners,
all the lawyer’s acuteness of perception and readiness of wit, all the
politician’s practised tact and habitual subtlety, were brought to bear
upon the common topics of the day with such promptitude, and such power,
that one knew not whether to be more struck by the mass of information
they possessed, or by that strange fatality which could make men, so
great and so gifted, satisfied to jest where they might be called on to
judge.
Play and politics, wine and women, debts and duels, were discussed, not
only with an absence of all restraint, but with a deep knowledge of the
world and a profound insight into the heart, which often imparted to the
careless and random speech the sharpness of the most cutting sarcasm.
Personalities, too, were rife; no one spared his neighbour, for he did
not expect mercy for himself; and the luckless wight who tripped in his
narrative, or stumbled in his story, was assailed on every side, until
some happy expedient of his own, or some new victim being discovered,
the attack would take another direction, and leave him once more at
liberty. I feel how sadly inadequate I am to render even the faintest
testimony to the talents of those, any one of whom, in after life, would
have been considered to have made the fortune of a dinner-party, and
who now were met together, not in the careless ease and lounging
indifference of relaxation, but in the open arena where wit met wit, and
where even the most brilliant talker, the happiest relater, the quickest
in sarcasm, and the readiest in reply, felt he had need of all his
weapons to defend and protect him. This was a _mêlée_ tournament, where
each man rode down his neighbour, with no other reason for attack than
detecting a rent in his armour. Even the Viceroy himself, who, as judge
of the lists, might be supposed to enjoy an immunity, was not safe here,
and many an arrow, apparently shot at an adversary, was sent quivering
into his corslet.
As I watched, with all the intense excitement of one to whom such a
display was perfectly new, I could not help feeling how fortunate it
was that the grave avocations and the venerable pursuits of the greater
number of the party should prevent this firework of wit from bursting
into the blaze of open animosity. I hinted as much to my neighbour,
O’Grady, who at once broke into a fit of laughter at my ignorance; and
I now learnt to my amazement that the Common Pleas had winged the
Exchequer, that the Attorney-General had pinked the Bolls, and, stranger
than all, that the Provost of the University himself had planted his man
in the Phoenix.
“It is just as well for us,” continued he, in a whisper, “that the
churchmen can’t go out; for the Dean, yonder, can snuff a candle at
twenty paces, and is rather a hot-tempered fellow to boot. But come,
now, his Grace is about to rise. We have a field-day to-morrow in the
Park, and break up somewhat earlier in consequence.”
As it was now near two o’clock, I could see nothing to cavil at as
to the earliness of the hour, although, I freely confess, tired and
exhausted as I felt, I could not contemplate the moment of separation
without a sad foreboding that I ne’er should look upon the like again.
The party rose at this moment, and the Duke, shaking hands cordially
with each person as he passed down, wished us all a good night. I
followed with O’Grady and some others of the household, but when I
reached the ante-chamber, mv new friend volunteered his services to see
me to my quarters.
On traversing the lower castle-yard, we mounted an old-fashioned and
rickety stair, which conducted to a gloomy, ill-lighted corridor. I was
too much fatigued, however, to be critical at the moment, and so, having
thanked O’Grady for all his kindness, I threw off my clothes hastily,
and, before my head was well upon the pillow, was sound asleep.
CHAPTER IV. THE BREAKFAST
There are few persons so unreflective as not to give way to a little
self-examination on waking for the first time in a strange place. The
very objects about are so many appeals to your ingenuity or to your
memory, that you cannot fail asking yourself how you became acquainted
with them: the present is thus made the herald of the past, and it is
difficult, when unravelling the tangled web of doubt that assails you,
not to think over the path by which you have been travelling.
As for me, scarcely were my eyes opened to the light, I had barely
thrown one glance around my cold and comfortless chamber, when thoughts
of home came rushing to my mind. The warm earnestness of my father, the
timid dreads of my poor mother, rose up before me, as I felt myself, for
the first time, alone in the world. The elevating sense of heroism, that
more or less blends with every young man’s dreams of life, gilds our
first journey from our father’s roof. There is a feeling of freedom in
being the arbiter of one’s actions, to go where you will and when you
will. Till that moment the world has been a comparative blank; the
trammels of school or the ties of tutorship have bound and
restrained you. You have been living, as it were, within the rules
of court--certain petty privileges permitted, certain small liberties
allowed; but now you come forth disenchanted, disenthralled,
emancipated, free to come as to go--a man in all the plenitude of his
volition; and, better still, a man without the heavy, depressing weight
of responsibility that makes manhood less a blessing than a burden. The
first burst of life is indeed a glorious thing; youth, health, hope, and
confidence have each a force and vigour they lose in after years:
life is then a splendid river, and we are swimming with the stream--no
adverse waves to weary, no billows to buffet us, we hold on our course
rejoicing.
The sun was peering between the curtains of my window, and playing
in fitful flashes on the old oak floor, as I lay thus ruminating and
dreaming over the fature. How many a resolve did I then make for my
guidance--how many an intention did I form--how many a groundwork of
principle did I lay down, with all the confidence of youth! I fashioned
to myself a world after my own notions; in which I conjured up certain
imaginary difficulties, all of which were surmounted by my admirable
tact and consummate cleverness. I remembered how, at both Eton and
Sandhurst, the Irish boy was generally made the subject of some jest
or quiz, at one time for his accent, at another for his blunders. As
a Guardsman, short as had been my experience of the service, I could
plainly see that a certain indefinable tone of superiority was ever
asserted towards our friends across the sea. A wide-sweeping prejudice,
whose limits were neither founded in reason, justice, or common sense,
had thrown a certain air of undervaluing import over every one and
every thing from that country. Not only were its faults and its follies
heavily visited, but those accidental and trifling blemishes--those
slight and scarce perceptible deviations from the arbitrary standard
of fashion--were deemed the strong characteristics of the nation, and
condemned accordingly; while the slightest use of any exaggeration in
speech--the commonest employment of a figure or a metaphor--the casual
introduction of an anecdote or a repartee, were all heavily censured,
and pronounced “so very Irish!” Let some fortune-hunter carry off an
heiress--let a lady trip over her train at the drawing-room--let a
minister blunder in his mission--let a powder-magazine explode and blow
up one-half of the surrounding population, there was but one expression
to qualify all--“How Irish! how very Irish!” The adjective had become
one of depreciation; and an Irish lord, an Irish member, an Irish
estate, and an Irish diamond, were held pretty much in the same
estimation.
Reared in the very hot-bed, the forcing-house, of such exaggerated
prejudice, while imbibing a very sufficient contempt for everything in
that country, I obtained proportionably absurd notions of all that
was Irish. Our principles may come from our fathers; our prejudices
certainly descend from the female branch. Now, my mother,
notwithstanding the example of the Prince Regent himself, whose chosen
associates were Irish, was most thoroughly exclusive on this point. She
would admit that a native of that country could be invited to an evening
party under extreme and urgent circumstances--that some brilliant
orator, whose eloquence was at once the dread and the delight of the
House--that some gifted poet, whose verses came home to the heart
alike of prince and peasant--that the painter, whose canvas might
stand unblushingly amid the greatest triumphs of art--could be asked to
lionise for those cold and callous votaries of fashion, across the lake
of whose stagnant nature no breath of feeling stirred, esteeming it the
while, that in her card of invitation he was reaping the proudest proof
of his success; but that such could be made acquaintances or companions,
could be regarded in the light of equals or intimates, the thing
never entered into her imagination, and she would as soon have made a
confidant of the King of Kongo as a gentleman from Connaught.
Less for the purposes of dwelling upon my lady-mother’s “Hibernian
horrors,” than of showing the school in which I was trained, I have made
this somewhat lengthened _exposé_. It may, however, convey to my reader
some faint impression of the feelings which animated me at the outset of
my career in Ireland.
I have already mentioned the delight I experienced with the society
at the Viceroy’s table. So much brilliancy, so much wit, so much of
conversational power, until that moment I had no conception of. Now,
however, while reflecting on it, I was actually astonished to find how
far the whole scene contributed to the support of my ancient prejudices.
I well knew that a party of the highest functionaries--bishops and
law-officers of the crown--would not have conducted themselves in the
same manner in England. I stopped not to inquire whether it was more the
wit or the will that was wanting; I did not dwell upon the fact that
the meeting was a purely convivial one, to which I was admitted by the
kindness and condescension of the Duke; but, so easily will a warped
and bigoted impression find food for its indulgence, I only saw in
the meeting an additional evidence of my early convictions. How far my
theorising on this point might have led me--whether eventually I should
have come to the conclusion that the Irish nation were lying in the
darkest blindness of barbarism, while, by a special intervention
of Providence, I, was about to be erected into a species of double
revolving light--it is difficult to say, when a tap at the door suddenly
aroused me from my musings.
“Are ye awake, yet?” said a harsh, husky voice, like a bear in
bronchitis, which I had no difficulty in pronouncing to be Corny’s.
“Yes, come in,” cried I; “what hour is it?”
“Somewhere after ten,” replied he, sulkily; “you’re the first I ever
heerd ask the clock, in the eight years I have lived here. Are ye ready
for your morning?”
“My what?” said I, with some surprise.
“Didn’t I say it, plain enough? Is it the brogue that bothers you?”
As he said this with a most sarcastic grin he poured, from a large jug
he held in one hand, a brimming goblet full of some white compound,
and handed it over to me. Preferring at once to explore, rather than to
question the intractable Corny, I put it to my lips, and found it to be
capital milk punch, concocted with great skill, and seasoned with what
O’Grady afterwards called “a notion of nutmeg.”
“Oh! devil fear you, that he’ll like it. Sorrow one of you ever left as
much in the jug as ‘ud make a foot-bath for a flea.”
“They don’t treat you over well, then, Corny,” said I, purposely opening
the sorest wound of his nature.
“Trate me well! faix, them that ‘ud come here for good tratement, would
go to the devil for divarsion. There’s Master Phil himself, that I used
to bate, when he was a child, many’s the time, when his father, rest his
sowl, was up at the coorts--ay, strapped him, till he hadn’t a spot that
wasn’t sore an him--and look at him now; oh, wirra! you’d think I never
took a ha’porth of pains with him. Ugh!--the haythins!--the Turks!”
“This is all very bad, Corny; hand me those boots.”
“And thim’s boots!” said he, with a contemptuous expression on his face
that would have struck horror to the heart of Hoby. “Well, well.” Here
he looked up as though the profligacy and degeneracy of the age were
transgressing all bounds. “When you’re ready, come over to the master’s,
for he’s waiting breakfast for you. A beautiful hour for breakfast, it
is! Many’s the day his father sintenced a whole dockful before the same
time!”
With the comforting reflection that the world went better in his youth,
Corny drained the few remaining drops of the jug, and, muttering the
while something that did not sound exactly like a blessing, waddled out
of the room with a gait of the most imposing gravity.
I had very little difficulty in finding my friend’s quarters; for, as
his door lay open, and as he himself was carolling away, at the very top
of his lungs, some popular melody of the day, I speedily found myself
beyond the threshold.
“Ah! Hinton, my hearty, how goes it? your headpiece nothing the worse,
I hope, for either the car or the claret? By-the-by, capital claret that
is! you’ve nothing like it in England.”
I could scarce help a smile at the remark, as he proceeded,
“But come, my boy, sit down; help yourself to a cutlet, and make
yourself quite at home in Mount O’Grady.”
“Mount O’Grady!” repeated I. “Ha! in allusion, I suppose, to these
confounded two flights one has to climb up to you.”
“Nothing of the kind; the name has a very different origin. Tea or
coffee? there’s the tap! Now, my boy, the fact is, we O’Gradys were once
upon a time very great folk in our way; lived in an uncouth old barrack,
with battlements and a keep, upon the Shannon, where we ravaged the
country for miles round, and did as much mischief, and committed as much
pillage upon the peaceable inhabitants, as any respectable old family
in the province. Time, however, wagged on; luck changed; your countrymen
came pouring in upon us with new-fangled notions of reading, writing,
and road-making; police and petty sessions, and a thousand other
vexatious contrivances followed, to worry and puzzle the heads of simple
country gentlemen; so that, at last, instead of taking to the hill-side
for our mutton, we were reduced to keep a market-cart, and employ a
thieving rogue in Dublin to supply us with poor claret, instead of
making a trip over to Galway, where a smuggling craft brought us our
liquor, with a bouquet fresh from Bordeaux. But the worst wasn’t come;
for you see, a litigious spirit grew up in the country, and a kind
of vindictive habit of pursuing you for your debts. Now, we always
contrived, somehow or other, to have rather a confused way of managing
our exchequer. No tenant on the property ever precisely knew what he
owed; and, as we possessed no record of what he paid, our income was
rather obtained after the maimer of levying a tribute, than receiving a
legal debt. Meanwhile, we pushed our credit like a new colony: whenever
a loan was to be, obtained, it was little we cared for ten, twelve, or
even fifteen per cent.; and as we kept a jolly house, a good cook, good
claret, and had the best pack of beagles in the country, he’d have been
a hardy creditor who’d have ventured to push us to extremities. Even
sheep, however, they say, get courage when they flock together, and so
this contemptible herd of tailors, tithe-proctors, butchers, barristers,
and bootmakers, took heart of grace, and laid siege to us in all form.
My grandfather, Phil,--for I was called after him,--who always spent his
money like a gentleman, had no notion of figuring in the Four Courts;
but he sent Tom Darcy, his cousin, up to town, to call out as many of
the plaintiffs as would fight, and to threaten the remainder that, if
they did not withdraw their suits, they’d have more need of the surgeon
than the attorney-general; for they shouldn’t have a whole bone in their
body by Michaelmas-day. Another cutlet, Hinton? But I am tiring you with
all these family matters.”
“Not at all; go on, I beg of you. I want to hear how your grandfather
got out of his difficulties.”
“Faith, I wish you could! it would be equally pleasant news to myself;
but, unfortunately, his beautiful plan only made bad worse, for they
began fresh actions. Some, for provocation to fight a duel; others,
for threats of assault and battery; and the short of it was, as my
grandfather wouldn’t enter a defence, they obtained their verdicts, and
got judgment, with all the costs.”
“The devil they did! That must have pushed him hard.”
“So it did; indeed it got the better of his temper, and he that was
one of the heartiest, pleasantest fellows in the province, became, in
a manner, morose and silent; and, instead of surrendering possession,
peaceably and quietly, he went down to the gate, and took a sitting shot
at the sub-sheriff, who was there in a tax-cart.”
“Bless my soul! Did he kill him?”
“No; he only ruffled his feathers, and broke his thigh; but it was bad
enough, for he had to go over to France till it blew over. Well, it was
either vexation or the climate, or, maybe, the weak wines, or, perhaps,
all three, undermined his constitution, but he died at eighty-four--the
only one of the family ever cut off early, except such as were shot, or
the like.”
“Well, but your father--”
“I am coming to him. My grandfather sent for him from school when he
was dying, and he made him swear he would be a lawyer. ‘Morris will be a
thorn in their flesh, yet,’ said he; ‘and look to it, my boy,’ he cried,
‘I leave you a Chancery suit that has nearly broke eight families and
the hearts of two chancellors;--see that you keep it goings--sell
every stick on the estate--put all the beggars in the barony on the
property--beg, borrow, and steal them--plough up all the grazing-land;
and I’ll tell you a better trick than all----’ Here a fit of coughing
interrupted the pious old gentleman, and, when it was over, so was he!”
“Dead!” said I.
“As a door-nail! Well, my father was dutiful; he kept the suit moving
till he got called to the Bar! Once there, he gave it all his spare
moments; and when there was nothing doing in the Common Pleas or King’s
Bench, he was sure to come down with a new bill, or a declaration,
before the Master, or a writ of error, or a point of law for a jury,
till at last, when no case was ready to come on, the sitting judge would
call out, ‘Let us hear O’Grady/ in appeal, or in error, or whatever it
was. But, to make my story short, my father became a first-rate lawyer,
by the practice of his own suit--rose to a silk-gown--was made solicitor
and attorney-general--afterwards, chief-justice----”
“And the suit?”
“Oh! the suit survived him, and became my property; but, somehow, I
didn’t succeed in the management quite as well as my father; and I found
that my estate cost me somewhere about fifteen hundred a year--not to
mention more oaths than fifty years of purgatory could pay off. This was
a high premium to pay for figuring every term on the list of trials, so
I raised a thousand pounds on my commission, gave it to Nick M’Namara,
to take the property off my hands, and as my father’s last injunction
was, ‘Never rest till you sleep in Mount O’Grady,’--why, I just baptised
my present abode by that name, and here I live with the easy conscience
of a dutiful and affectionate child that took the shortest and speediest
way of fulfilling his father’s testament.”
“By Jove! a most singular narrative. I shouldn’t like to have parted
with the old place, however.”
“Faith, I don’t know! I never was much there. It was a rackety,
tumble-down old concern, with rattling windows, rooks, and rats, pretty
much like this; and, what between my duns and Corny Delany, I very often
think I am back there again. There wasn’t as good a room as this in the
whole house, not to speak of the pictures. Isn’t that likeness of Darcy
capital? You saw him last night. He sat next Curran. Come, I’ve no
curaçoa to offer you, but try this usquebaugh.”
“By-the-by, that Corny is a strange character. I rather think, if I were
you, I should have let him go with the property.”
“Let him go! Egad, that’s not so easy as you think. Nothing but death
will ever part us.”
“I really cannot comprehend how you endure him; he’d drive me mad.”
“Well, he very often pushes me a little hard or so; and, if it wasn’t
that, by deep study and minute attention, I have at length got some
insight into the weak parts of his nature, I frankly confess I couldn’t
endure it much longer.”
“And, pray, what may these amiable traits be?”
“You will scarcely guess”
“Love of money, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Attachment to your family, then?”
“Not that either.”
“I give it up.”
“Well, the truth is, Corny is a most pious Catholic. The Church has
unbounded influence and control over all his actions. Secondly, he is a
devout believer in ghosts, particularly my grandfather’s, which, I must
confess, I have personated two or three times myself, when his temper
had nearly tortured me into a brain fever; so that between purgatory and
apparitions, fears here and hereafter, I keep him pretty busy. There’s a
friend of mine, a priest, one Father Tom Loftus----”
“I’ve heard that name before, somewhere.”
“Scarcely, I think; I’m not aware that he was ever in England; but he’s
a glorious fellow; I’ll make you known to him, one of these days; and
when you have seen a little more of Ireland, I am certain you’ll like
him. But I’m forgetting; it must be late; we have a field-day, you know,
in the Park.”
“What am I to do for a mount? I’ve brought no horses with me.”
“Oh, I’ve arranged all that. See, there are the nags already. That dark
chesnut I destine for you; and, come along, we have no time to lose;
there go the carriages, and here comes our worthy colleague and fellow
aide-de-camp. Do you know him?”
“Who is it, pray?”
“Lord Dudley de Vere, the most confounded puppy, and the emptiest ass--
But here he is.”
“De Vere, my friend Mr. Hinton--one of ours.”
His Lordship raised his delicate-looking eyebrows as high as he was
able, letting fall his glass at the same moment from the corner of his
eye; and while he adjusted his stock at the glass, lisped out,
“Ah--yes--very happy. In the Guards, I think. Know Douglas, don’t you?”
“Yes, very slightly.”
“When did you come--to-day?”
“No; last night.”
“Must have got a buffeting; blew very fresh. You don’t happen to know
the odds on the Oaks?”
“Hecate, they say, is falling. I rather heard a good account of the
mare.”
“Indeed,” said he, while his cold, inanimate features brightened up with
a momentary flush of excitement. “Take you five to two, or give you the
odds, you don’t name the winner on the double event.”
A look from O’Grady decided me at once on declining the proffered
wager; and his Lordship once more returned to the mirror and his
self-admiration.
“I say, O’Grady, do come here for a minute. What the deuce can that be?”
[Illustration: 2-0074]
Here an immoderate fit of laughter from his Lordship brought us both to
the window. The figure to which his attention was directed was certainly
not a little remarkable. Mounted upon an animal of the smallest possible
dimensions, sat, or rather stood, the figure of a tall, gaunt, raw-boned
looking man, in a livery of the gaudiest blue and yellow, his hat
garnished with silver lace, while long tags of the same material were
festooned gracefully from his shoulder to his breast; his feet
nearly touched the ground, and gave him rather the appearance of one
progressing with a pony between his legs, than of a figure on horseback;
he carried under one arm a leather pocket, like a despatch bag; and, as
he sauntered slowly about, with his eyes directed hither and thither,
seemed like some one in search of an unknown locality.
The roar of laughter which issued from our window drew his attention
to that quarter, and he immediately touched his hat, while a look of
pleased recognition played across his countenance. “Holloa, Tim!” cried
O’Grady, “what’s in the wind now?”
Tim’s answer was inaudible, but inserting his hand into the leathern
con-veniency already mentioned, he drew forth a card of most portentous
dimensions. By this time Corny’s voice could be heard joining the
conversation.
“Arrah, give it here, and don’t be making a baste of yourself. Isn’t
the very battle-axe Guards laughing at you? I’m sure I wonder how a
Christian would make a merry-andrew of himself by wearing such clothes;
you’re more like a play-actor nor a respectable servant.”
With these words he snatched rather than accepted the proffered card;
and Tim, with another flourish of his hat, and a singularly droll grin,
meant to convey his appreciation of Cross Corny, plunged the spurs till
his legs met under the belly of the little animal, and cantered out of
the court-yard amid the laughter of the bystanders, in which even the
sentinels on duty could not refrain from participating.
“What the devil can it be?” cried Lord Dudley; “he evidently knows you,
O’Grady.”
“And you, too, my Lord; his master has helped you to a cool hundred or
two more than once before now.”
“Eh--what--you don’t say so! Not our worthy friend Paul--eh? Why,
confound it, I never should have known Timothy in that dress.”
“No,” said O’Grady, slyly; “I acknowledge it is not exactly his costume
when he serves a latitat.”
“Ha, ha!” cried the other, trying to laugh at the joke, which he felt
too deeply; “I thought I knew the pony, though. Old three-and-fourpence;
his infernal canter always sounds in my ears like the jargon of a bill
of costs.”
“Here comes Corny,” said O’Grady. “What have you got there?”
“There, ‘tis for you,” replied he, throwing, with an air of the most
profound disdain, a large card upon the table; while, as he left the
room, he muttered some very sagacious reflections about the horrors
of low company--his father the Jidge--the best in the land--riotous,
disorderly life; the whole concluding with an imprecation upon heathens
and Turks, with which he managed to accomplish his exit.
“Capital, by Jove!” said Lord Dudley, as he surveyed the card with his
glass.
“‘Mr. and Mrs. Paul Rooney presents’--the devil they does--‘presents
their compliments, and requests the honour of Captain O’Grady’s company
at dinner on Friday, the 8th, at half-past seven o’clock.’”
“How good! glorious, by Jove! eh, O’Grady? You are a sure ticket
there--_l’ami de la maison!_”
O’Grady’s cheek became red at these words; and a flashing expression in
his eyes told how deeply he felt them. He turned sharply round, his lip
quivering with passion; then, checking himself suddenly, he burst into
an affected laugh,
“You’ll go too, wont you?”
“I? No, faith, they caught me once; but then the fact was, a protest and
an invitation were both served on me together. I couldn’t accept one, so
I did the other.”
“Well, I must confess,” said O’Grady, in a firm, resolute tone, “there
may be many more fashionable people than our friends; but I, for one,
scruple not to say I have received many kindnesses from them, and am
deeply, sincerely grateful.”
“As far as doing a bit of paper now and then, when one is hard up,” said
Lord Dudley, “why, perhaps, I’m somewhat of your mind; but if one must
take the discount out in dinners, it’s an infernal bore.”
“And yet,” said O’Grady, maliciously, “I’ve seen your Lordship tax your
powers to play the agreeable at these same dinners; and I think your
memory betrays you in supposing you have only been there once. I myself
have met you at least four times.”
“Only shows how devilish hard up I must have been,” was the cool reply;
“but now, as the governor begins to behave better, I think I’ll cut
Paul.”
“I’m certain you will,” said O’Grady, with an emphasis that could not be
mistaken. “But come, Hinton, we had better be moving; there’s some stir
at the portico yonder, I suppose they’re coming.”
At this moment the tramp of cavalry announced the arrival of the guard
of honour; the drums beat, the troops stood to arms, and we had barely
time to mount our horses, when the viceregal party took their places in
the carriages, and we all set out for the Phoenix.
“Confess, Hinton, it is worth while being a soldier to be in Ireland.”
This was O’Grady’s observation as we rode down Parliament-street, beside
the carriage of the Viceroy. It was the first occasion of a field-day
since the arrival of his Excellency, and all Dublin was on the tiptoe of
expectation at the prospect. Handkerchiefs were waved from the windows;
streamers and banners floated from the house-tops; patriotic devices and
allegoric representations of Erin sitting at a plentiful board, opposite
an elderly gentleman with a ducal coronet, met us at every turn of the
way. The streets were literally crammed with people. The band played
Patrick’s-day; the mob shouted, his Grace bowed; and down to Phil
O’Grady himself, who winked at the pretty girls as he passed, there did
not seem an unoccupied man in the whole procession. On we went,
following the line of the quays, threading our way through a
bare-legged, ragged population, bawling themselves hoarse with energetic
desires for prosperity to Ireland. “Yes,” thought I, as I looked upon
the worn, dilapidated houses, the faded and bygone equipages, the
tarnished finery of better days--“yes, my father was right, these people
are very different from their neighbours; their very prosperity has an
air quite peculiar to itself.” Everything attested a state of poverty, a
lack of trade, a want of comfort and of cleanliness; but still there was
but one expression prevalent in the mass--that of unbounded good humour
and gaiety. With a philosophy quite his own, poor Paddy seemed to feel a
reflected pleasure from the supposed happiness of those around him, the
fine clothes, the gorgeous equipages, the prancing chargers, the flowing
plumes--all, in fact, that forms the appliances of wealth--constituting
in his mind a kind of paradise on earth. He thought their possessors at
least ought to be happy, and, like a good-hearted fellow, he was glad of
it for their sakes.
There had been in the early part of the day an abortive effort at a
procession. The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs, in their state liveries,
had gone forth with a proud following of their fellow-citizens; but a
manouvre, which hitherto has been supposed exclusively the province
of the navy, was here employed with unbounded success; and the hackney
coachmen, by “cutting the line” in several places, had completely
disorganised the procession, which now presented the singular spectacle
of an aldermanic functionary with emblazoned panels and bedizened
horses, followed by a string of rackety jaunting-cars, or a noddy with
its fourteen insides. Horsemen there were, too, in abundance. Were I to
judge from the spectacle before me, I should say that the Irish were
the most equestrian people of the globe; and at what a pace they went!
Caring little or nothing for the foot-passengers, they only drew rein
when their blown steeds were unable to go further, and then dashed
onwards like a charge, amid a shower of oaths, curses, and imprecations,
half drowned in the laughter that burst on every side. Deputations there
were also from various branches of trade, entreating their Graces to
wear and to patronise the manufacture of the country, and to conform
in many respects to its habits and customs: by all of which, in my then
ignorance, I could only understand the vehement desire of the population
that the viceregal court should go about in a state of nature, and limit
their diet to poteen and potatoes.
“Fine sight this, Hinton! Isn’t it cheering?” said O’Grady, as his eye
beamed with pleasure and delight.
“Why, yes,” said I, hesitatingly; “but don’t you think if they wore
shoes----”
“Shoes!” repeated he, contemptuously, “they’d never suffer such
restrictions on their liberties. Look at them! they are the fellows to
make soldiers of! The only fear of half-rations with them would be the
risk of indigestion.”
On we went, a strange and motley mass, the only grave faces being a few
of those who sat in gilded coaches, with embroidered hammercloths, while
every half-naked figure that flitted past had a countenance of reckless
jollity and fun. But the same discrepancy that pervaded the people and
the procession was visible even in their dwellings, and the meanest
hovels stood side by side with the public and private edifices of
elegance and beauty.
“This, certainly,” thought I, “is a strange land.” A reflection I had
reason to recur to more than once in my after experience of Ireland.
CHAPTER V. THE REVIEW IN THE PHOENIX
Winding along the quays, we crossed an old and dilapidated bridge; and
after traversing some narrow and ruinous-looking streets, we entered the
Park, and at length reached the Fifteen Acres.
The carriages were drawn up in a line; his Grace’s led horses were
ordered up, and staff-officers galloped right and left to announce the
orders for the troops to stand to arms.
As the Duke descended from his carriage he caught my eye, and turning
suddenly towards the Duchess, said, “Let me present Mr. Hinton to your
Grace.”
While I was making my bows and acknowledgments, his Grace put his hand
upon my arm.
“You know Lady Killimore, Hinton? Never mind, it’s of no consequence.
You see her carriage yonder--they have made some blunder in the road,
and the dragoons, it seems, wont let them pass. Just canter down and
rescue them.”
“Do, pray, Mr. Hinton,” added the Duchess. “Poor Lady Killimore is so
very nervous she’ll be terrified to death if they make any fuss. Her
carriage can come up quite close; there is plenty of room.”
“Now, do it well,” whispered O’Grady: “there is a pretty girl in the
case; it’s your first mission; acquit yourself with credit.”
An infernal brass band playing “Rule Britannia” within ten paces of
me, the buzz of voices, the crowd, the novelty of the situation, the
excitement of the moment, all conspired to addle and confuse me; so that
when I put spurs to my horse and struck out into a gallop, I had no very
precise idea of what I was to do, and not the slightest upon earth of
where I was to do it.
A pretty girl in a carriage beset by dragoons was to be looked for--Lady
Kil--somebody’s equipage---- “Oh! I have it; there they are,” said I, as
a yellow barouche, with four steaming posters, caught my eye in a far part
of the field. From the number of dragoons that surrounded the
carriage, no less than their violent gestures, I could perceive that an
altercation had taken place; pressing my horse to the top of his speed,
I flew across the plain, and arrived flushed, heated, and breathless
beside the carriage.
A large and strikingly handsome woman in a bonnet and plumes of the
most gaudy and showy character, was standing upon the front seat, and
carrying on an active, and, as it seemed, acrimonious controversy with
the sergeant of the horse police.
“You must go back--can’t help it, ma’am--nothing but the members of the
household can pass this way.”
“Oh dear! where’s Captain O’Grady?--sure it’s not possible I could be
treated this way. Paul, take that man’s name, and mind you have him
dismissed in the morning. Where are you, Paul? Ah! he’s gone. It is the
way with him always; and there you sit, Bob Dwyer, and you are no more
good than a stick of sealing-wax!” Here a suppressed titter of laughter
from the back of the carriage induced me to turn my eyes in that
direction, and I beheld one of the most beautiful girls I ever looked
at, holding her handkerchief to her month to conceal her laughter. Her
dark eyes flashed, and her features sparkled, while a blush, at being so
discovered, if possible, added to her beauty.
“All right,” said I to myself, as taking off my hat I bowed to the very
mane of my horse.
“If your Ladyship will kindly permit me,” said I, “his Grace has sent me
to show you the way.”
The dragoons fell back as I spoke; the horse police looked awfully
frightened; while the lady whose late eloquence manifested little of
fear or trepidation, threw herself back in the carriage, and, covering
her face with a handkerchief, sobbed violently.
“Ah, the Duchess said she was nervous. Poor Lady Kil----”
“Speak to me, Louisa dear. Who is it? Is it Mr. Wellesley Pole? Is
it----”
I did not wait for a further supposition, but in a most insinuating
voice, added,
“Mr. Hinton, my lady, extra aide-de-camp on his Excellency’s staff. The
Duchess feared you would be nervous, and hopes you’ll get as close to
her as possible.”
“Where’s Paul?” said the lady, once more recovering her animation. “If
this is a hoax, young gentleman----”
“Madam,” said I, bowing stiffly, “I am really at a loss to understand
your meaning.”
“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Hilton.”
“Hinton, my Lady.”
“Yes, Hinton,” said she. “I am a beast to mistrust you, and you so young
and so artless; the sweetest blue eyes I ever looked at.”
This was said in a whisper to her young friend, whose mirth now
threatened to burst forth.
“And was it really his Royal Highness that sent you?”
“His Grace, my lady, I assure you, despatched me to your aid. He saw
your carriage through his glass, and, guessing what had occurred,
directed me to ride over and accompany your Ladyship to the viceregal
stand.”
Poor Lady Kil----‘s nervousness again seized her, and, with a faint cry
for the ever-absent Paul, she went off into rather smart hysterics.
During this paroxysm I could not help feeling somewhat annoyed at the
young lady’s conduct, who, instead of evincing the slightest sympathy
for her mother, held her head down, and seemed to shake with laughter.
By this time, however, the postilions were again under way, and, after
ten minutes’ sharp trotting, we entered the grand stand, with whips
cracking, ribbons fluttering, and I myself caracoling beside the
carriage with an air of triumphant success.
A large dusky travelling carriage had meanwhile occupied the place the
Duchess designed for her friend. The only thing to do, therefore, was,
to place them as conveniently as I could, and hasten back to inform her
Grace of the success of my mission. As I approached her carriage I was
saluted by a burst of laughter from the staff, in which the Duke himself
joined most extravagantly; while O’Grady, with his hands on his sides,
threatened to fall from the saddle.
“What the deuce is the matter?” thought I; “I didn’t bungle it?”
“Tell her Grace,” said the Duke, with his hand upon his mouth, unable to
finish the sentence with laughter.
I saw something was wrong, and that I was in some infernal scrape,
still, resolved to go through with it, I drew near, and said,
“I am happy to inform your Grace that Lady Kil----”
“Is here,” said the Duchess, bowing haughtily, as she turned towards a
spiteful-looking dowager beside her.
Here was a mess! So, bowing and backing, I dropped through the crowd to
where my companions still stood convulsed with merriment.
“What, in the devil’s name, is it?” said I to O’Grady “Whom have I been
escorting this half-hour?”
“You’ve immortalised yourself,” said O’Grady, with a roar of laughter.
“Your bill at twelve months for five hundred pounds is as good this
moment as bank paper.”
“What is it?” said I, losing all patience. “Who is she?”
“Mrs. Paul Rooney, my boy, the gem of attorneys’ wives, the glory of
Stephen’s-green, with a villa at Bray, a box at the theatre, champagne
suppers every night in the week, dinners promiscuously, and lunch _à
discrétion_: there’s glory for you. You may laugh at a latitat, sneer at
the King’s Bench, and snap your fingers at any process-server from here
to Kilmainham!”
“May the devil fly away with her!” said I, wiping my forehead with
passion and excitement.
“The Heavens forbid!” said O’Grady, piously. “Our exchequer may be
guilty of many an extravagance, but it could not permit such a flight as
that. It is evident, Hinton, that you did not see the pretty girl beside
her in the carriage.”
“Yes, yes, I saw her,” said I, biting my lip with impatience, “and she
seemed evidently enjoying the infernal blunder I was committing. And
Mrs. Paul--oh, confound her! I can never endure the sight of her again!”
“My dear young friend,” replied O’Grady, with an affected seriousness,
“I see that already the prejudices of your very silly countrymen have
worked their effect upon you. Had not Lord Dudley de Vere given you such
a picture of the Rooney family, you would probably be much more lenient
in your judgment: besides, after all, the error was yours, not hers. You
told her that the Duke had sent you; you told her the Duchess wished her
carriage beside her own.”
“You take a singular mode,” said I, pettishly, “to bring a man back to
a good temper, by showing him that he has no one to blame for his
misfortunes but himself. Confound them! look how they are all laughing
about us. Indeed, from the little I’ve seen, it is the only thing they
appear to do in this country.”
At a signal from the Duke, O’Grady put spurs to his horse and cantered
down the line, leaving me to such reflections as I could form, beneath
the gaze of some forty persons, who could not turn to look without
laughing at me.
“This is pleasant,” thought I; “this is really a happy _début_: that I,
whose unimpeachable accuracy of manner and address should have won for
me, at the Prince’s levee, the approbation of the first gentleman of
Europe, should here, among these semi-civilised savages, become an
object of ridicule and laughter. My father told me they were very
different; and my mother------” I had not patience to think of the
frightful effects my absurd situation might produce upon her nerves.
“Lady Julia, too--ah! there’s the rub--my beautiful cousin, who, in the
slightest solecism of London manners, could find matter for sarcasm and
raillery. What would she think of me now? And this it is they persuaded
me to prefer to active service! What wound to a man’s flesh could equal
one to his feelings? I would rather be condoled with than scoffed at any
day; and see! by Jove, they’re laughing still. I would wager a fifty
that I furnish the dinner conversation for every table in the capital
this day.”
The vine twig shows not more ingenuity, as it traverses some rocky crag
in search of the cool stream, at once its luxury and its life, than does
our injured self-love, in seeking for consolation from the inevitable
casualties of fate, and the irresistible strokes of fortune! Thus I
found comfort in the thought that the ridicule attached to me rather
proceeded from the low standard of manners and habits about me than from
anything positively absurd in my position; and, in my warped and biassed
imagination, I actually preferred the insolent insipidity of Lord
Dudley de Vere to the hearty raciness and laughter-loving spirit of Phil
O’Grady.
My reflections were now cut short by the order for the staff to mount,
and, following the current of my present feelings, I drew near to Lord
Dudley, in whose emptiness and inanity I felt a degree of security
from sarcasm, that I could by no means be so confident of in O’Grady’s
company.
Amid the thunder of cannon, the deafening roll of drums, the tramp
of cavalry, and the measured footfall of the infantry columns, these
thoughts rapidly gave way to others, and I soon forgot myself in
the scene around me. The sight, indeed, was an inspiriting one; for,
although but the mockery of glorious war, to my unpractised eye the
deception was delightful: the bracing air, the bright sky, the scenery
itself, lent their aid, and, in the brilliant panorama before me, I soon
regained my light-heartedness, and felt happy as before.
CHAPTER VI. THE SHAM BATTLE
I have mentioned in my last chapter how very rapidly I forgot my
troubles in the excitement of the scene around me. Indeed, they must
have been much more important, much deeper woes, to have occupied any
place in a head so addled and confused as mine was. The manoeuvres of
the day included a sham battle; and scarcely had his Excellency passed
down the line, when preparations for the engagement began. The heavy
artillery was seen to limber up, and move slowly across the field,
accompanied by a strong detachment of cavalry; columns of infantry
were marched hither and thither with the most pressing and eager haste;
orderly dragoons and staff-officers galloped to and fro like madmen;
red-faced plethoric little colonels bawled out the word of command till
one feared they might burst a bloodvessel; and already two companies of
light infantry might be seen stealing cautiously along the skirts of
the wood, with the apparently insidious design of attacking a brigade of
guns. As for me, I was at one moment employed carrying despatches to Sir
Charles Asgill, at another conveying intelligence to Lord Harrington;
these, be it known, being the rival commanders, whose powers of strategy
were now to be tested before the assembled and discriminating citizens
of Dublin. Not to speak of the eminent personal hazard of a service
which required me constantly to ride between the lines of contending
armies, the fatigue alone had nigh killed me. Scarcely did I appear,
breathless, at head-quarters on my return from one mission, when I was
despatched on another. Tired and panting, I more than once bungled my
directions, and communicated to Sir Charles the secret intentions of his
Lordship, while with a laudable impartiality I disarranged the former’s
plans by a total misconception of the orders. Fatigue, noise, chagrin,
and incessant worry had so completely turned my head, that I became
perfectly incapable of the commonest exercises of reason. Some of the
artillery I ordered into a hollow, where I was told to station a party
of riflemen. Three squadrons of cavalry I desired to charge up a hill,
which the 71st Highlanders were to have scrambled up if they were able.
Light dragoons I posted in situations so beset with brushwood and firs,
that all movement became impossible; and, in a word, when the signal-gun
announced the commencement of the action, my mistakes had introduced
such a new feature into tactics, that neither party knew what his
adversary was at, nor, indeed, had any accurate notion of which were his
own troops. The Duke, who had watched with the most eager satisfaction
the whole of my proceedings, sat laughing upon his horse till the very
tears coursed down his cheeks; and, as all the staff were more or less
participators in the secret, I found myself once more the centre of a
grinning audience, perfectly convulsed at my exploits. Meanwhile, the
guns thundered, the cavalry charged, the infantry poured in a rattling
roar of small arms; while the luckless commanders, unable to discover
any semblance of a plan, and still worse, not knowing where one half of
their forces were concealed, dared not adventure upon a movement, and
preferred trusting to the smoke of the battle as a cover for their
blunders. The fusilade, therefore, was hotly sustained; all the
heavy pieces were brought to the front; and while the spectators were
anxiously looking for the manoeuvres of a fight, the ammunition was
waxing low, and the day wearing apace. Dissatisfaction at length began
to show itself on every side; and the Duke assuming, as well as he was
able, somewhat of a disappointed look, the unhappy generals made a final
effort to retrieve their mishaps, and aides-de-camp were despatched
through all the highways and byways, to bring up whoever they could find
as quickly as possible. Now then began such a scene as few even of the
oldest campaigners ever witnessed the equal of. From every dell and
hollow, from every brake and thicket, burst forth some party or other,
who up to this moment believed themselves lying in ambush. Horse, foot,
and dragoons, artillery, sappers, light infantry, and grenadiers, rushed
forward wherever chance or their bewildered officers led them. Here
might be seen one half of a regiment blazing away at a stray company of
their own people, running like devils for shelter; here some squadrons
of horse, who, indignant at their fruitless charges and unmeaning
movements, now doggedly dismounted, were standing right before a brigade
of twelve-pounders, thundering mercilessly amongst them. Never was
witnessed such a scene of riot, confusion, and disorder. Colonels lost
their regiments, regiments their colonels. The Fusiliers captured the
band of the Royal Irish, and made them play through the heat of the
engagement. Those who at first expressed _enmui_ and fatigue at the
sameness and monotony of the scene, were now gratified to the utmost
by its life, bustle, and animation. Elderly citizens in drab shorts and
buff waistcoats explained to their listening wives and urchins the plans
and intentions of the rival heroes, pronouncing the whole thing the
while the very best field-day that ever was seen in the Phoenix.
In the midst of all this confusion, a new element of discord suddenly
displayed itself. That loyal corps, the Cork militia, who were ordered
up to attack close to where the Duke and his staff were standing, deemed
that no better moment could be chosen to exhibit their attachment to
church and state than when marching on to glory, struck up, with all the
discord of their band, the redoubted air of “Protestant Boys.” A cheer
burst from the ranks as the loyal strains filled the air; but scarcely
had the loud burst subsided, when the Louth militia advanced with a
quick step, their fifes playing “Vinegar-hill.”
For a moment or two the rivalry created a perfect roar of laughter; but
this very soon gave way, as the two regiments, instead of drawing up
at a reasonable distance for the interchange of an amicable blank
cartridge, rushed down upon each other with the fury of madmen. So
sudden, so impetuous was the encounter, all effort to prevent it was
impracticable. Muskets were clubbed or bayonets fixed, and in a
moment really serious battle was engaged; the musicians on each side
encouraging their party, as they racked their brains for party-tunes of
the most bitter and taunting character; while cries of “Down with King
William I.” “To hell with the Pope?” rose alternately from either side.
How far this spirit might have extended, it is difficult to say, when
the Duke gave orders for some squadrons of cavalry to charge down upon
them, and separate the contending forces. This order was fortunately
in time; for scarcely was it issued, when a west country yeomanry corps
came galloping up to the assistance of the brave Louth.
“Here we are, boys!” cried Mike Westropp, their colonel--“here we are!
lave the way! lave the way for us! and we’ll ride down the murthering
Orange villains, every man of them!”
The Louth fell back, and the yeomen came forward at a charge; Westropp
standing high in his stirrups, and flourishing his sabre above his head.
It was just then that a heavy brigade of artillery, unconscious of the
hot work going forward, was ordered to open their fire upon the
Louth militia. One of the guns, by some accident, contained an undue
proportion of wadding, and to this casual circumstance may, in a great
degree, be attributed the happy issue of what threatened to be a serious
disturbance; for, as Westropp advanced, cheering and encouraging his
men, he received this wadding slap in his face. Down he tumbled at once,
rolling over and over with the shock; while, believing that he had got
his death-wound, he bellowed out,
“Oh! blessed Virgin! there’s threason in the camp! hit in the face by
a four-pounder, by Jove! Oh! Duke darling! Oh! your Grace! Oh! holy
Joseph, look at this! Oh! bad luck to the arthillery, for spoiling a
fair fight! Peter”--this was the major of the regiment--“Peter Darcy,
gallop into town and lodge informations against the brigade of guns.
I’ll be dead before you come back.”
A perfect burst of laughter broke from the opposing ranks, and while his
friends crowded round the discomfited leader, the rival bands united
in a roar of merriment that for a moment caused a suspension of
hostilities. For a moment, I say; for scarcely had the gallant Westropp
been conveyed to the rear, when once more the bands struck up their
irritating strains, and preparations for a still more deadly encounter
were made on every side. The matter now assumed so serious an aspect,
that the Duke was obliged himself to interfere, and order both parties
off the ground; the Cork deploying towards the lodge, while the brave
Louth marched off with banners flying and drums beating in the direction
of Knockmaroon.
These movements were conducted with a serio-comic solemnity of the most
ludicrous kind; and although the respect for viceregal authority was
great, and the military devotion of each party strong, yet neither one
nor the other was sufficient to prevent the more violent on both sides
from occasionally turning, as they went, to give expression to some
taunting allusion or some galling sarcasm, well calculated, did the
opportunity permit, to renew the conflict.
A hearty burst of laughter from the Duke indicated pretty clearly how
he regarded the matter; and, however the grave and significant looks of
others might seem to imply that there was more in the circumstance than
mere food for mirth, he shook his sides merrily; and, as his bright eye
glistened with satisfaction, and his cheek glowed, he could not help
whispering his regret that his station compelled him to check the very
best joke he ever witnessed in his life.
“This is hot work, Sir Charles,” said he, wiping his forehead as he
spoke; “and, as it is now past three o’clock, and we have a privy
council at four, I fear I must leave you.”
“The troops will move past in marching order,” replied Sir Charles,
pompously: “will your Grace receive the salute at this point?”
“Wherever you like, Sir Charles; wherever you like. Would to Heaven that
some good Samaritan could afford me a little brandy-and-water from his
canteen. I say, Hinton, they seem at luncheon yonder in that carriage:
do you think your diplomacy could negotiate a glass of sherry for me?”
“If you’ll permit me, my Lord, I’ll try,” said I, as, disengaging myself
from the crowd, I set off in the direction he pointed.
As I drew near the carriage--from which the horses had been
taken--drawn up beside a clump of beech-trees for the sake of shelter--I
was not long in perceiving that it was the same equipage I had so
gallantly rescued in the morning from the sabres of the horse police.
Had I entertained any fears for the effects of the nervous shock upon
the tender sensibilities of Mrs. Paul Rooney, the scene before me must
completely have dispelled my uneasiness. Never did a merrier peal of
laughter ring from female lungs than hers as I rode forward. Seated in
the back of the carriage, the front cushion of which served as a kind of
table, sat the lady in question. One hand, resting upon her knee, held
a formidable carving-fork, on the summit of which vibrated the short leg
of a chicken; in the other she grasped a silver vessel, which, were I
to predicate from the froth, I fear I should pronounce to be porter. A
luncheon on the most liberal scale, displayed, in all the confusion
and disorder inseparable from such a situation, a veal-pie, cold lamb,
tongue, chickens, and sandwiches; drinking vessels of every shape and
material; a smelling bottle full of mustard, and a newspaper paragraph
full of salt. Abundant as were the viands, the guests were not wanting:
crowds of infantry officers, flushed with victory or undismayed by
defeat, hob-nobbed from the rumble to the box; the steps, the springs,
the very splinter-bar had its occupant; and, truly, a merrier party, or
a more convivial, it were difficult to conceive.
So environed was Mrs. Rooney by her friends, that I was enabled to
observe them some time, myself unseen.
“Captain Mitchell, another wing? Well, the least taste in life of the
breast? Bob Dwyer, will ye never have done drawing that cork?”
Now this I must aver was an unjust reproach, inasmuch as to my own
certain knowledge he had accomplished three feats of that nature in
about as many minutes; and, had the aforesaid Bob been reared from his
infancy in drawing corks, instead of declarations, his practice could
not have been more expert. Pop, pop, they went; ghig, glug, glug, flowed
the bubbling liquor, as sherry, shrub, cold punch, and bottled porter
succeeded each other in rapid order. Simpering ensigns, with elevated
eyebrows, insinuated nonsense, soft, vapid, and unmeaning as their own
brains, as they helped themselves to ham or dived into the pasty; while
a young dragoon, who seemed to devote his attention to Mrs. Rodney’s
companion, amused himself by constant endeavours to stroke down a
growing moustache, whose downy whiteness resembled nothing that I know
of save the ill-omened fur one sees on an antiquated apple-pie.
As I looked on every side to catch a glance at him whom I should suppose
to Mr. Rooney, I was myself detected by the watchful eye of Bob Dwyer,
who, at that moment having his mouth full of three hard eggs, was nearly
asphyxiated in his endeavours to telegraph my approach to Mrs. Paul.
“The edge-du-cong, by the mortial!” said he, sputtering out the words,
as his bloodshot eyes nearly bolted out of his head.
Had I been a Bengal tiger, my advent might have caused less alarm. The
officers not knowing if the Duke himself were coming, wiped their lips,
resumed their caps and chakos, and sprang to the ground in dismay and
confusion: as Mrs. Rooney herself, with an adroitness an Indian juggler
might have envied, plunged the fork, drumstick and all, into the
recesses of her muff; while with a back hand she decanted the XX upon
a bald major of infantry, who was brushing the crumbs from his facings.
One individual alone seemed to relish and enjoy the discomfiture of the
others: this was the young lady whom I before remarked, and whose whole
air and appearance seemed strangely at variance with everything around
her. She gave free current to her mirth; while Mrs. Paul, now suddenly
restored to a sense of her nervous constitution, fell back in her
carriage, and appeared bent upon a scene.
“You caught us enjoying ourselves, Mr. Stilton?”
“Hinton, if you’ll allow me, madam.”
“Ay, to be sure--Mr. Hinton. Taking a little snack, which I am sure
you’d be the better for after the fatigues of the day.”
“Eh, au au! a devilish good luncheon,” chimed in a pale sub, the first
who ventured to pluck up his courage.
“Would a sandwich tempt you, with a glass of champagne?” said Mrs. Paul,
with the blandest of smiles.
“I can recommend the lamb, sir,” said a voice behind.
“Begad, I’ll vouch for the porter,” said the Major. “I only hope it is a
good cosmetic.”
“It is a beautiful thing for the hair,” said Mrs. Rooney, half venturing
upon a joke.
“No more on that head, ma’am,” said the little Major, bowing pompously.
By this time, thanks to the assiduous attentions of Bob Dwyer, I was
presented with a plate, which, had I been an anaconda instead of an
aide-decamp, might have satisfied my appetite. A place was made for
me in the carriage; and the faithful Bob, converting the skirt of his
principal blue into a glass-cloth, polished a wine-glass for my private
use.
“Let me introduce my young friend, Mr. Hinton,” said Mrs. Paul, with a
graceful wave of her jewelled hand towards her companion. “Miss Louisa
Bellew, only daughter of Sir Simon Bellew, of ------” what the place was
I could not well hear, but it sounded confoundedly like
Killhiman-smotherum--“a beautiful place in the county Mayo. Bob, is it
punch you are giving?”
“Most excellent, I assure you, Mrs. Rooney.”
“And how is the Duke, sir? I hope his Grace enjoys good health. He is a
darling of a man.”
By-the-by, it is perfectly absurd the sympathy your third or fourth-rate
people feel in the health and habits of those above them in station,
pleased as they are to learn the most common-place and worthless
trifles concerning them, and happy when, by any chance, some accidental
similitude would seem to exist even between their misfortunes.
“And the dear Duchess,” resumed Mrs. Rooney, “she’s troubled with the
nerves like myself. Ah! Mr. Hinton, what an affliction it is to have a
sensitive nature; that’s what I often say to my sweet young friend here.
It’s better for her to be the gay, giddy, thoughtless, happy thing
she is, than----” Here the lady sighed, wiped her eyes, flourished her
cambric, and tried to look like Agnes in the “Bleeding Nun.” “But here
they come. You don’t know Mr. Rooney? Allow me to introduce him to you.”
As she spoke, O’Grady cantered up to the carriage, accompanied by a
short, pursy, round-faced little man, who, with his hat set knowingly
on one side, and his top-boots scarce reaching to the middle of the
leg, bestrode a sharp, strong-boned hackney, with cropped ears and short
tail. He carried in his hand a hunting-whip, and seemed, by his seat in
the saddle and the easy finger upon the bridle, no indifferent horseman.
“Mr. Rooney,” said the lady, drawing herself up with a certain austerity
of manner, “I wish you to make the acquaintance of Mr. Hinton, the
aide-de-camp to his Grace.”
Mr. Rooney lifted his hat straight above his head, and replaced it a
little more obliquely than before over his right eye.
“Delighted, upon my honour--faith, quite charmed--hope you got something
to eat--there never was such a murthering hot day--Bob Dwyer, open a
bottle of port--the Captain is famished.”
“I say, Hinton,” called out O’Grady, “you forgot the Duke, it seems; he
told me you’d gone in search of some sherry, or something of the kind;
but I can readily conceive how easily a man may forget himself in such a
position as yours.”
Here Mrs. Paul dropped her head in deep confusion, Miss Bellew looked
saucy, and I, for the first time remembering what brought me there, was
perfectly overwhelmed with shame at my carelessness.
“Never mind, boy, don’t fret about it, his Grace is the most forgiving
man in the world; and when he knows where you were----”
“Ah, Captain!” sighed Mrs. Rooney.
“Master Phil, it’s yourself can do it,” murmured Paul, who perfectly
appreciated O’Grady’s powers of “blarney,” when exercised on the
susceptible temperament of his fair spouse.
“I’ll take a sandwich,” continued the Captain. “Do you know, Mrs.
Rooney, I’ve been riding about this half-hour to catch my young friend,
and introduce him to you; and here I find him comfortably installed,
without my aid or assistance. The fact is, these English fellows have a
nattering, insinuating way of their own there’s no coming up to. Isn’t
that so, Miss Bellew?”
“Very likely,” said the young lady, who now spoke for the first time;
“but it is so very well concealed that I for one could never detect it.”
This speech, uttered with a certain pert and saucy air, nettled mc for
the moment; but as no reply occurred to me, I could only look at the
speaker a tacit acknowledgment of her sarcasm; while I remembered,
for the first time, that, although seated opposite my very attractive
neighbour, I had hitherto not addressed to her a single phrase of even
common-place attention.
“I suppose you put up in the Castle, sir?” said Mr. Rooney.
“Yes, two doors lower down than Mount O’Grady,” replied the Captain for
me. “But come, Hinton, the carriages are moving, we must get back as
quick as we can. Good-by, Paul Adieu, Mrs. Rooney, Miss Bellew, good
morning.”
It was just at the moment when I had summoned up my courage to address
Miss Bellew, that O’Grady called me away: there was nothing for it,
however, but to make my adieus; while, extricating myself from the
_débris_ of the luncheon, I once more mounted my horse, and joined the
viceregal party as they drove from the ground.
“I’m delighted you know the Rooneys,” said O’Grady, as we drove along;
“they are by far the best fun going. Paul good, but his wife superb!”
“And the young lady?” said I.
“Oh, a different kind of thing altogether. By-the-by, Hinton, you took
my hint, I hope, about your English manner?”
“Eh--why--how--what did you mean?”
“Simply, my boy, that your Coppermine-river kind of courtesy may be a
devilish fine thing in Hyde Park or St. James’s, but will never do with
us poor people here. Put more warmth into it, man. Dash the lemonade
with a little maraschino; you’ll feel twice as comfortable yourself, and
the girls like you all the better. You take the suggestion in good part,
I’m sure.”
“Oh, of course,” said I, somewhat stung that I should get a lesson in
manner where I had meant to be a model for imitation; “if they like that
kind of thing, I must only conform.”
CHAPTER VII. THE ROONEYS.
I cannot proceed further in this my veracious history without dwelling
a little longer upon the characters of the two interesting individuals I
have already presented to my readers as Mr. and Mrs. Rooney.
Paul Rooney, attorney-at-law, 42, Stephen’s-green, north, was about
as well known in his native city of Dublin as Nelson’s Pillar. His
reputation, unlimited by the adventitious circumstances of class, spread
over the whole surface of society; and, from the chancellor down to the
carman, his claims were confessed.
It is possible that, in many other cities of the world, Mr. Rooney might
have been regarded as a common-place, every-day personage, well to do
in the world, and of a free-and-easy character, which, if it left little
for reproach, left still less for remark: but in Ireland, whether it was
the climate or the people, the potteen or the potatoes, I cannot say,
but certainly he “came out,” as the painters call it, in a breadth of
colour quite surprising.
The changeful character of the skies has, they tell us, a remarkable
influence in fashioning the ever-varying features of Irish temperament;
and, certainly, the inconstant climate of Dublin had much merit if it
produced in Mr. Rooney the versatile nature he rejoiced in.
About ten o’clock, on every morning during term, might be seen a
shrewd, cunning-looking, sly little fellow, who, with pursed-up lips and
slightly elevated nose, wended his way towards the Four Courts, followed
by a ragged urchin with a well-filled bag of purple stuff. His black
coat, drab shorts, and gaiters, had a plain and business-like cut; and
the short, square tie of his white cravat had a quaint resemblance to a
flourish on a deed; the self-satisfied look, the assured step, the easy
roll of the head--all bespoke one with whom the world was thriving; and
it did not need the additional evidence of a certain habit he had of
jingling his silver in his breeches-pocket as he went, to assure you
that Rooney was a warm fellow, and had no want of cash.
Were you to trace his steps for the three or four hours that ensued, you
would see him bustling through the crowded hall of the Four Courts--now,
whispering some important point to a leading barrister, while he held
another by the gown lest he should escape him; now, he might be remarked
seated in a niche between the pillars, explaining some knotty difficulty
to a western client, whose flushed cheek and flashing eye too plainly
indicated his impatience of legal strategy, and how much more pleased he
would feel to redress his wrongs in his own fashion; now brow-beating,
now cajoling, now encouraging, now condoling, he edged his way through
the bewigged and dusty throng, not stopping to reply to the hundred
salutations he met with, save by a knowing wink, which was the only
civility he did not put down at three-and-fourpence. If his knowledge of
law was little, his knowledge of human nature--at least of such of it
as Ireland exhibits--was great; and no case of any importance could
come before a jury, where Paul’s advice and opinion were not deemed of
considerable importance. No man better knew all the wiles and twists,
all the dark nooks and recesses of Irish character. No man more quickly
could ferret out a hoarded secret; no one so soon detect an attempted
imposition. His was the secret _police_ of law: he read a witness as he
would a deed, and detected a flaw in him to the full as easily.
As he sat near the leading counsel in a cause, he seemed a kind of
middle term between the lawyer and the jury. Marking by some slight
but significant gesture every point of the former, to the latter he
impressed upon their minds every favourable feature of his client’s
cause; and twelve deaf men might have followed the pleadings in a cause
through the agency of Paul’s gesticulations. The consequence of these
varied gifts was, business flowed in upon him from every side, and few
members of the bar were in the receipt of one-half his income.
Scarcely, however, did the courts rise, when Paul, shaking from his
shoulders the learned dust of the Exchequer, would dive into a small
apartment which, in an obscure house in Mass-lane, he dignified by the
name of his study. Short and few as were his moments of seclusion, they
sufficed to effect in his entire man a complete and total change. The
shrewd little attorney, that went in with a _nisi prius_ grin, came out
a round, pleasant-looking fellow, with a green coat of jockey cut, a
buff waistcoat, white cords, and tops; his hat set jauntily on one side,
his spotted neckcloth knotted in bang-up mode,--in fact, his figure the
_beau idéal_ of a west-country squire taking a canter among his covers
before the opening of the hunting.
His grey eyes, expanded to twice their former size, looked the very soul
of merriment; his nether lip, slightly dropped, quivered with the last
joke it uttered. Even his voice partook of the change, and was now
a rich, full, mellow Clare accent, which, with the recitative of his
country, seemed to Italianise his English. While such was Paul, his
_accessoires_--as the French would call them--were in admirable keeping:
a dark chesnut cob, a perfect model of strength and symmetry, would be
led up and down by a groom, also mounted upon a strong hackney,
whose flat rib and short pastern showed his old Irish breeding; the
well-fitting saddle, the well-balanced stirrup, the plain but powerful
snaffle, all looked like the appendages of one whose jockeyism was no
assumed feature; and, indeed, you had only to see Mr. Rooney in his
seat, to confess that he was to the full as much at home there as in the
Court of Chancery.
From this to the hour of a late dinner, the Phoenix Park became his
resort. There, surrounded by a gay and laughing crowd, Paul cantered
along, amusing his hearers with the last _mot_ from the King’s Bench,
or some stray bit of humour or fun from a case on circuit. His
conversation, however, principally ran on other topics: the Curragh
Meeting, the Loughrea Steeple-chase, the Meath Cup, or Lord Boyne’s
Handicap; with these he was thoroughly familiar. He knew the odds of
every race, could apportion the weights, describe the ground, and,
better than all, make rather a good guess at the winner. In addition to
these gifts, he was the best judge of a horse in Ireland; always well
mounted, and never without at least two hackneys in his stable, able to
trot their fifteen Irish miles within the hour. Such qualities as
these might be supposed popular ones in a country proverbially given
to sporting; but Mr. Rooney had other and very superior powers of
attraction,--he was the Amphitryou of Dublin. It was no figurative
expression to say that he kept open house. _Déjeuners_, dinners, routs,
and balls followed each other in endless succession. His cook was
French, his claret was Sneyd’s; he imported his own sherry and Madeira,
both of which he nursed with a care and affection truly parental. His
venison and black-cock came from Scotland; every Holyhead packet had
its consignment of Welsh mutton; and, in a word, whatever wealth could
purchase, and a taste, nurtured as his had been by the counsel of many
who frequented his table, could procure, such he possessed in abundance,
his greatest ambition being to outshine in splendour, and surpass in
magnificence, all the other dinner-givers of the day, filling his house
with the great and titled of the land, who ministered to his vanity with
singular good-nature, while they sipped his claret, and sat over his
Burgundy. His was indeed a pleasant house. The _bons vivants_ liked it
for its excellent fare, the perfection of its wines, the certainty of
finding the first rarity of the season before its existence was heard of
at other tables; the lounger liked it for its ease and informality; the
humorist, for the amusing features of its host and hostess; and not a
few were attracted by the gracefulness and surpassing loveliness of one
who, by some strange fatality of fortune, seemed to have been dropped
down into the midst of this singular _ménage_.
Of Mr. Rooney, I have only further to say that, hospitable as a prince,
he was never so happy as at the head of his table; for, although his
natural sharpness could not but convince him of the footing which he
occupied among his high and distinguished guests, yet he knew well there
are few such levellers of rank as riches, and he had read in his youth
that even the lofty Jove himself was accessible by the odour of a
hecatomb.
Mrs. Rooney--or, as she wrote herself upon her card, Mrs. Paul Rooney
(there seemed something distinctive in the prenom.)--was a being of
a very different order. Perfectly unconscious of the ridicule that
attaches to vulgar profusion, she believed herself the great source of
attraction of her crowded staircase and besieged drawing-room. True
it was, she was a large and very handsome woman. Her deep, dark, brown
eyes, and brilliant complexion, would have been beautiful, had not her
mouth somewhat marred their effect, by that coarse expression which high
living and a voluptuous life is sure to impress upon those not born
to be great. There is no doubt of it, the mouth is your thorough-bred
feature. You will meet eyes as softly beaming, as brightly speaking,
among the lofty cliffs of the wild Tyrol, or in the deep valleys of
the far west; I have seen, too, a brow as fairly pencilled, a nose no
Grecian statue could surpass, a skin whose tint was fair and transparent
as the downy rose-leaf, amid the humble peasants of a poor and barren
land; but never have I seen the mouth whose clean-cut lip and chiselled
arch betokened birth. No; that feature would seem the prerogative of
the highly born; fashioned to the expression of high and holy thoughts;
moulded to the utterance of ennobling sentiment, or proud desire. Its
every lineament tells of birth and blood.
Now, Mrs. Rooney’s mouth was a large and handsome one, her teeth white
and regular withal, and, when at rest, there was nothing to find
fault with; but let her speak--was it her accent?--was it the awful
provincialism of her native city?--was it that strange habit of
contortion any _patois_ is sure to impress upon the speaker?--I cannot
tell, but certainly it lent to features of very considerable attraction
a vulgarising character of expression.
It was truly provoking to see so handsome a person mar every effect
of her beauty by some extravagant display. Dramatising every trivial
incident in life, she rolled her eyes, looked horror-struck or happy,
sweet or sarcastic, lofty or languishing, all in one minute. There was
an eternal play of feature of one kind or other; there was no rest,
no repose. Her arms--and they were round, and fair, and
well-fashioned--were also enlisted in the service; and to a distant
observer Mrs. Rooney’s animated conversation appeared like a priest
performing mass.
And that beautiful head, whose fair and classic proportions were
balanced so equally upon her white and swelling throat, how tantalising
to know it full of low and petty ambitions, of vulgar tastes, of
contemptible rivalries, of insignificant triumph. To see her, amid the
voluptuous splendour and profusion of her gorgeous house, resplendent
with jewellery, glistening in all the blaze of emeralds and rubies; to
watch how the poisonous venom of innate vulgarity had so tainted that
fair and beautiful form, rendering her an object of ridicule who should
have been a thing to worship. It was too bad; and, as she sat at dinner,
her plump but taper fingers grasping a champagne glass, she seemed like
a Madonna enacting the part of Moll Flagon.
Now, Mrs. Paul’s manner had as many discrepancies as her features. She
was by nature a good, kind, merry, coarse personage, who loved a joke
not the less if it were broad as well as long. Wealth, however, and its
attendant evils, suggested the propriety of a very different line; and
catching up as she did at every opportunity that presented itself such
of the airs and graces as she believed to be the distinctive traits
of high life, she figured about in these cast-off attractions, like a
waiting-maid in the abandoned finery of her mistress.
As she progressed in fortune, she “tried back” for a family, and
discovered that she was an O’Toole by birth, and consequently of Irish
blood-royal; a certain O’Toole being king of a nameless tract, in an
unknown year, somewhere about the time of Cromwell, who, Mrs. Rooney had
heard, came over with the Romans.
“Ah, yes, my dear,” as she would say when, softened by sherry and
sorrow, she would lay her hand upon your arm--“ah, yes, if every one had
their own, it isn’t married to an attorney I’d be, but living in regal
splendour in the halls of my ancestors. Well, well!” Here she would
throw up her eyes with a mixed expression of grief and confidence in
Heaven, that if she hadn’t got her own, in this world, Oliver Cromwell,
at least, was paying off, in the other, his foul wrongs to the royal
house of O’Toole.
I have only one person more to speak of ere I conclude my rather prolix
account of the family. Miss Louisa Bellew was the daughter of an Irish
baronet, who put the keystone upon his ruin by his honest opposition
to the passing of the Union. His large estates, loaded with debt
and encumbered by mortgage, had been for half a century a kind of
battle-field for legal warfare at every assizes. Through the medium of
his difficulties he became acquainted with Mr. Rooney, whose craft
and subtlety had rescued him from more than one difficulty, and whose
good-natured assistance had done still more important service by loans
upon his property.
At Mr. Rooney’s suggestion, Miss Bellew was invited to pass her winter
with them in Dublin. This proposition which, in the palmier days of the
baronet’s fortune, would in all probability never have been made, and
would certainly never have been accepted, was now entertained with some
consideration, and finally acceded to, on prudential motives. Rooney had
lent him large sums; he had never been a pressing, on the contrary, he
was a lenient creditor; possessing great power over the property, he had
used it sparingly, even delicately, and showed himself upon more than
one occasion not only a shrewd adviser, but a warm friend. “‘Tis true,”
thought Sir Simon, “they are vulgar people, of coarse tastes and low
habits, and those with whom they associate laugh at, though they live
upon them; yet, after all, to refuse this invitation may be taken in ill
part; a few months will do the whole thing. Louisa, although young,
has tact and cleverness enough to see the difficulties of her position;
besides, poor child, the gaiety and life of a city will be a relief to
her, after the dreary and monotonous existence she has passed with me.”
This latter reason he plausibly represented to himself as a strong one
for complying with what his altered fortunes and ruined prospects seemed
to render no longer a matter of choice.
To the Rooneys, indeed, Miss Bellew’s visit was a matter of some
consequence; it was like the recognition of some petty state by one
of the great powers of Europe. It was an acknowledgment of a social
existence, an evidence to the world not only that there was such a thing
as the kingdom of Rooney, but also that it was worth while to enter into
negotiation with it, and even accredit an ambassador to its court.
Little did that fair and lovely girl think, as with tearful eyes she
turned again and again to embrace her father, as the hour arrived, when
for the first time in her life she was to leave her home, little did she
dream of the circumstances under which her visit was to be paid. Less
a guest than a hostage, she was about to quit the home of her infancy,
where, notwithstanding the inroads of poverty, a certain air of its once
greatness still lingered; the broad and swelling lands, that stretched
away with wood and coppice, far as the eye could reach--the woodland
walks--the ancient house itself, with its discordant pile, accumulated
at different times by different masters--all told of power and supremacy
in the land of her fathers. The lonely solitude of those walls, peopled
alone by the grim-visaged portraits of long-buried ancestors, were now
to be exchanged for the noise and bustle, the glitter and the glare of
second-rate city life; profusion and extravagance, where she had seen
but thrift and forbearance; the gossip, the scandal, the tittle-tattle
of society, with its envies, its jealousies, its petty rivalries, and
its rancours, were to supply those quiet evenings beside the winter
hearth, when reading aloud some old and valued volume she learned to
prize the treasures of our earlier writers under the guiding taste of
one whose scholarship was of no mean order, and whose cultivated mind
was imbued with all the tenderness and simplicity of a refined and
gentle nature.
When fortune smiled, when youth and wealth, an ancient name and a high
position, all concurred to elevate him, Sir Simon Bellew was courteous
almost to humility; but when the cloud of misfortune lowered over his
house, when difficulties thickened around him, and every effort to
rescue seemed only to plunge him deeper, then the deep-rooted pride of
the man shone forth: and he who in happier days was forgiving even to
a fault, became now scrupulous about every petty observance, exacting
testimonies of respect from all around him, and assuming an almost
tyranny of manner totally foreign to his tastes, his feelings, and
his nature; like some mighty oak of the forest, riven and scathed by
lightning, its branches leafless and its roots laid bare, still standing
erect, it stretches its sapless limbs proudly towards heaven, so stood
he, reft of nearly all, yet still presenting to the adverse wind of
fortune his bold, unshaken front.
Alas and alas! poverty has no heavier evil in its train than its
power of perverting the fairest gifts of our nature from their true
channel,--making the bright sides of our character dark, gloomy, and
repulsive. Thus the high-souled pride that in our better days sustains
and keeps us far above the reach of sordid thoughts and unworthy
actions, becomes, in the darker hour of our destiny, a misanthropic
selfishness, in which we wrap ourselves as in a mantle. The caresses
of friendship, the warm affections of domestic love, cannot penetrate
through this; even sympathy becomes suspect, and then commences that
terrible struggle against the world, whose only termination is a broken
heart.
Notwithstanding, then, all Mr. Rooney’s address in conveying the
invitation in question, it was not without a severe struggle that Sir
Simon resolved on its acceptance; and when at last he did accede, it was
with so many stipulations, so many express conditions, that, thad they
been complied with _de facto_, as they were acknowledged by promise,
Miss Bellew would, in all probability, have spent her winter in the
retirement of her own chamber in Stephen’s-green, without seeing more of
the capital and its inhabitants than a view from her window presented.
Paul, it is true, agreed to everything; for, although, to use his own
language, the codicil revoked the entire body of the testament, he
determined in his own mind to break the will. “Once in Dublin,” thought
he, “the fascinations of society, the pleasures of the world, with such
a guide as Mrs. Rooney”--and here let me mention, that for his wife’s
tact and social cleverness Paul had the most heartfelt admiration--“with
advantages like these, she will soon forget the humdrum life of
Kilmorran Castle, and become reconciled to a splendour and magnificence
unsurpassed by even the viceregal court.”
Here, then, let me conclude this account of the Rooneys, while I resume
the thread of my own narrative. Although I feel for and am ashamed of
the prolixity in which I have indulged, yet, as I speak of real people,
well known at the period of which I write, and as they may to a certain
extent convey an impression of the tone of one class in the society
of that day, I could not bring myself to omit their mention, nor even
dismiss them more briefly.
CHAPTER VIII. THE VISIT
I have already recorded the first twenty-four hours of my life in
Ireland; and, if there was enough in them to satisfy me that the country
was unlike in many respects that which I had left, there was also some
show of reason to convince me that, if I did not conform to the habits
and tastes of those around me, I should incur a far greater chance of
being laughed at by them than be myself amused by their eccentricities.
The most remarkable feature that struck me was the easy, even cordial
manner with which acquaintance was made. Every one met you as if he had
in some measure been prepared for the introduction; a tone of intimacy
sprang up at once; your tastes were hinted, your wishes guessed at,
with an unaffected kindness that made you forget the suddenness of the
intimacy: so that, when at last you parted with your dear friend of
some half an hour’s acquaintance, you could not help wondering at the
confidences you had made, the avowals you had spoken, and the lengths to
which you had gone in close alliance with one you had never seen before,
and might possibly never meet again. Strange enough as this was with
men, it was still more singular when it extended to the gentler sex.
Accustomed as I had been all my life to the rigid observances of
etiquette in female society, nothing surprised me so much as the rapid
steps by which Irish ladies passed from acquaintance to intimacy, from
intimacy to friendship. The unsuspecting kindliness of woman’s nature
has certainly no more genial soil than in the heart of Erin’s daughters.
There is besides, too, a winning softness in their manner towards the
stranger of another land that imparts to their hospitable reception a
tone of courteous warmth I have never seen in any other country.
The freedom of manner I have here alluded to, however delightful it may
render the hours of one separated from home, family, and friends, is
yet not devoid of its inconveniences. How many an undisciplined and
uninformed youth has misconstrued its meaning and mistaken its
import How often have I seen the raw subaltern elated with imaginary
success--flushed with a fancied victory--where, in reality, he had
met with nothing save the kind looks and the kind words in which the
every-day courtesies of life are couched, and by which, what, in less
favoured lands, are the cold and chilling observances of ceremony, are
here the easy and familiar intercourse of those who wish to know each
other.
The coxcomb who fancies that he can number as many triumphs as he has
passed hours in Dublin, is like one who, estimating the rich production
of a southern clime by their exotic value in his own colder regions,
dignifies by the name of luxury what are in reality but the every-day
productions of the soil: so he believes peculiarly addressed to
himself the cordial warmth and friendly greeting which make the social
atmosphere around him.
If I myself fell deeply into this error, and if my punishment was a
heavy one, let my history prove a beacon to all who follow in my steps;
for Dublin is still a garrison city, and I have been told that lips as
tempting and eyes as bright are to be met there as heretofore. Now to my
story.
Life in Dublin, at the time I write of, was about as gay a thing as a
man can well fancy. Less debarred than in other countries from
partaking of the lighter enjoyments of life, the members of the learned
professions mixed much in society; bringing with them stores of
anecdote and information unattainable from other sources, they made
what elsewhere would have proved the routine of intercourse a season
of intellectual enjoyment. Thus, the politician, the churchman, the
barrister, and the military man, shaken as they were together in dose
intimacy, lost individually many of the prejudices of their caste, and
learned to converse with a wider and more extended knowledge of the
world. While this was so, another element, peculiarly characteristic
of the country, had its share in modelling social life--that innate
tendency to drollery, that bent to laugh with every one and at
everything, so eminently Irish, was now in the ascendant. From the
Viceroy downwards, the island was on the broad grin. Every day furnished
its share, its quota of merriment. Epigrams, good stories, repartees,
and practical jokes rained in showers over the land. A privy council was
a _conversazione_ of laughing bishops and droll chief-justices. Every
trial at the bar, every dinner at the court, every drawing-room,
afforded a theme for some ready-witted absurdity; and all the graver
business of life was carried on amid this current of unceasing fun and
untiring drollery, just as we see the serious catastrophe of a modern
opera assisted by the crash of an orchestral accompaniment.
With materials like these society was made up; and into this I plunged
with all the pleasurable delight of one who, if he could not appreciate
the sharpness, was at least dazzled by the brilliancy of the wit that
flashed around him. My duties as aide-de-camp were few, and never
interfered with my liberty: while in my double capacity of military man
and _attaché_ to the court, I was invited everywhere, and treated with
marked courtesy and kindness. Thus passed my life pleasantly along, when
a few mornings after the events I have mentioned, I was sitting at my
breakfast, conning over my invitations for the week, and meditating a
letter, home, in which I should describe my mode of life with as much
reserve as might render the record of my doings a safe disclosure for
the delicate nerves of my lady-mother. In order to accomplish this
latter task with success, I scribbled with some notes a sheet of paper
that lay before me. “Among other particularly nice people, my dear
mother,” wrote I, “there are the Rooneys. Mr. Rooney--a member of the
Irish bar, of high standing and great reputation--is a most agreeable
and accomplished person. How much I should like to present him to you.”
I had got thus far, when a husky, asthmatic cough, and a muttered curse
on the height of my domicile, apprised me that some one was at my door.
At the same moment a heavy single knock, that nearly stove in the panel,
left no doubt upon my mind.
“Are ye at home, or is it sleeping ye are? May I never, if it’s much
else the half of ye’s fit for. Ugh, blessed hour! three flights of
stairs, with a twist in them instead of a landing. Ye see he’s not in
the place. I tould you that before I came up. But if s always the same
thing. Corny, run here; Corny, fly there; get me this, take that. Bad
luck to them! One would think they badgered me for bare divarsion, the
haythins, the Turks!”
A fit of coughing, that almost convinced me that Corny had given his
last curse, followed this burst of eloquence, just as I appeared at the
door.
“What’s the matter, Corny?”
“The matter?--ugh, ain’t I coughing my soul out with a wheezing and
whistling in my chest like a creel of chickens. Here’s Mr. Rooney
wanting to see ye; and faith,” as he added in an under tone, “if s not
long you wor in making his acquaintance. That’s his room,” added he,
with a jerk of his thumb. “Now lave the way if you plase, and let me got
a howld of the banisters.”
With these words Corny began his descent, while I, apologising to Mr.
Rooney for not having sooner perceived kirn, bowed him into the room
with all proper ceremony.
“A thousand apologies, Mr. Hinton, for the unseasonable hour of my
visit, but business----”
“Pray not a word,” said I; “always delighted to see you. Mrs. Rooney is
well, I hope?”
“Charming, upon my honour. But, as I was saying, I could not well come
later; there is a case in the King’s Bench--Rex _versus_ Ryves--a heavy
record, and I want to catch the counsel to assure him that all’s safe.
God knows, it has cost me an anxious night. Everything depended on one
witness, an obstinate beast that wouldn’t listen to reason. We got hold
of him last night; got three doctors to certify he was out of his mind;
and, at this moment, with his head shaved, and a grey suit on him, he is
the noisiest inmate in Glassnevin madhouse.”
“Was not this a very bold, a very dangerous expedient?”
“So it was. He fought like a devil, and his outrageous conduct has its
reward, for they put him on low diet and handcuffs the moment he went
in. But excuse me, if I make a hurried visit. Mrs. Rooney requests
that--that--but where the devil did I put it?”
Here Mr. Rooney felt his coat-pockets, dived into those of his
waistcoat, patted himself all over, then looked into his hat, then round
the room, on the floor, and even outside the door upon the lobby.
“Sure it is not possible I’ve lost it.”
“Nothing of consequence, I hope?” said I.
“What a head I have,” replied he, with a knowing grin, while at the
same moment throwing up the sash of my window, he thrust out the head in
question, and gave a loud shrill whistle.
Scarcely was the casement closed when a ragged urchin appeared at the
door, carrying on his back the ominous stuff-bag containing the record
of Mr. Rooney’s rogueries.
“Give me the bag, Tim,” quoth he; at the same moment he plunged his
hand deep among the tape-tied parcels, and extricated a piece of square
pasteboard, which, having straightened and flattened upon his knee, he
presented to me with a graceful bow, adding, jocosely, “an ambassador
without his credentials would never do.”
It was an invitation to dinner at Mr. Rooney’s for the memorable Friday
for which my friend O’Grady had already received his card.
“Nothing will give me more pleasure----”
“No, will it though? how very good of you! a small cosy party--Harry
Burgh, Bowes Daley, Barrington, the judges, and a few more. There now,
no ceremony, I beg of you. Come along, Joe. Good morning, Mr. Hinton:
not a step further.”
So saying, Mr. Rooney backed and shuffled himself out of my room, and,
followed by his faithful attendant, hurried down stairs, muttering a
series of self-gratulations, as he went, on the successful result of his
mission. Scarcely had he gone, when I heard the rapid stride of another
visitor, who, mounting four steps at a time, came along chanting, at the
top of his voice,
“My two back teeth I will bequeath
To the Reverend Michael Palmer;
His wife has a tongue that’ll match them well,
She’s a devil of a scold, God d--n her!”
“How goes it, Jack my hearty?” cried he, as he sprang into the room,
flinging his sabre into the corner, and hurling his foraging cap upon
the sofa.
“You have been away, O’Grady? What became of you for the last two days?”
“Down at the Curragh, taking a look at the nags for the Spring Meeting.
Dined with the bar at Naas; had a great night with them; made old Moore
gloriously tipsy, and sent him into court the next morning with the
overture to Mother Goose in his bag instead of his brief. Since daybreak
I have been trying a new horse in the Park, screwing him over all the
fences, and rushing him at the double rails in the pathway, to see if he
can’t cross the country.”
“Why the hunting season is nearly over.”
“Quite true; but it is the Loughrea Steeple-chase I am thinking of. I
have promised to name a horse, and I only remembered last night that
I had but twenty-four hours to do it. The time was short, but by good
fortune I heard of this grey on my way up to town.”
“And you think he’ll do?”
“He has a good chance, if one can only keep on his back; but what
between bolting, plunging, and rushing through his fences, he is not a
beast for a timid elderly gentleman. After all, one must have something:
the whole world will be there; the Rooneys are going; and that pretty
little girl with them. By-the-by, Jack, what do you think of Miss
Bellew?”
“I can scarcely tell you; I only saw her for a moment, and then that
Hibernian hippopotamus, Mrs. Paul, so completely overshadowed her, there
was no getting a look at her.”
“Devilish pretty girl, that she is; and one day or other, they say, will
have an immense fortune. Old Rooney always shakes his head when the idea
is thrown out, which only convinces me the more of her chance.”
“Well, then, Master Phil, why don’t you do something in that quarter?”
“Well, so I should; but somehow, most unaccountably, you’ll say, I don’t
think I made any impression. To be sure, I never went vigorously to
work: I couldn’t get over my scruples of making up to a girl who may
have a large fortune, while I myself am so confoundedly out at the
elbows; the thing would look badly, to say the least of it; and so, when
I did think I was making a little running, I only ‘held in’ the faster,
and at length gave up the race. _You_ are the man, Hinton. _Your_
chances, I should say--”
“Ah, I don’t know.”
Just at this moment the door opened, and Lord Dudley de Vere entered,
dressed in coloured clothes, cut in the most foppish style of the day,
and with his hands stuck negligently behind in his coat-pockets.
He threw himself affectedly into a chair, and eyed us both without
speaking.
“I say, messieurs, Rooney or not Rooney? that’s the question. Do we
accept this invitation for Friday?”
“I do, for one,” said I, somewhat haughtily.
“Can’t be, my boy,” said O’Grady; “the thing is most unlucky: they have
a dinner at court that same day; our names are all on the list; and
thus we lose the Rooneys, which, from all I hear, is a very serious loss
indeed. Daley, Barrington, Harry Martin, and half a dozen others, the
first fellows of the day, are all to be there.”
“What a deal they will talk,” yawned out Lord Dudley. “I feel rather
happy to have escaped it. There’s no saying a word to the woman beside
you, as long as those confounded fellows keep up a roaring fire of what
they think wit. What an idea! to be sure; there is not a man among them
that can tell you the odds upon the Derby, nor what year there was a
dead heat for the St. Léger. That little girl the Rooneys have got
is very pretty, I must confess; but I see what they are at: won’t do,
though. Ha! O’Grady, you know what I mean?”
“Faith, I am very stupid this morning; can’t say that I do.”
“Not see it! It is a hollow thing; but perhaps you are in the scheme
too. There, you needn’t look angry; I only meant it in joke--ha! ha! ha!
I say, Hinton, do you take care of yourself: Englishers have no chance
here; and when they find it won’t do with _me_, they’ll take you in
training.”
“Anything for a _pis-aller_” said O’Grady, sarcastically; “but let
us not forget there is a levee to-day, and it is already past twelve
o’clock.”
“Ha! to be sure, a horrid bore.”
So saying, Lord Dudley lounged one more round the room, looked at
himself in the glass, nodded familiarly to his own image, and took his
leave. O’Grady soon followed; while I set about my change of dress with
all the speed the time required.
[Transcriber’s note: The remainder of this file digitized
from a different print copy which uses single quotation
marks for all quotes.]
CHAPTER IX. THE BALL
As the day of Mr. Rooney’s grand entertainment drew near, our
disappointment increased tenfold at our inability to be present.
The only topic discussed in Dublin was the number of the guests, the
splendour and magnificence of the dinner, which was to be followed by a
ball, at which above eight hundred guests were expected. The band of
the Fermanagh militia, at that time the most celebrated in Ireland, was
brought up expressly for the occasion. All that the city could number of
rank, wealth, and beauty had received invitations, and scarcely a single
apology had been returned.
‘Is there no possible way.’ said I, as I chatted with O’Grady on the
morning of the event; ‘is there no chance of our getting away in time to
see something of the ball at least?’
‘None whatever,’ replied he despondingly; ‘as ill-luck would have it,
it’s a command-night at the theatre. The duke has disappointed so often,
that he is sure to go now, and for the same reason he ‘ll sit the whole
thing out. By that time it will be half-past twelve, we shan’t get back
here before one; then comes supper; and---- in fact, you know enough of
the habits of this place now to guess that after that there is very
little use of thinking of going anywhere.’
‘It is devilish provoking,’ said I.
‘That it is: and you don’t know the worst of it. I ‘ve got rather a
heavy book on the Loughrea race, and shall want a few hundreds in a week
or so; and, as nothing renders my friend Paul so sulky as not eating his
dinners, it is five-and-twenty per cent, at least out of my pocket, from
this confounded _contretemps_. There goes De Vere. I say, Dudley, whom
have we at dinner to-day?’
‘Harrington and the Asgills, and that set,’ replied he, with an insolent
shrug of his shoulder.
‘More of it, by Jove,’ said O’Grady, biting his lip. ‘One must be as
particular before these people as a young sub. at a regimental mess.
There’s not a button of your coat, not a loop of your aiguillette, not
a twist of your sword-knot, little Charley won’t note down; and as there
is no orderly-book in the drawing-room, he will whisper to his grace
before coffee.’
‘Whatabore!’
‘Ay, and to think that all that time we might have been up to the very
chin in fun. The Rooneys to-day will outdo even themselves. They’ve got
half-a-dozen new lords on trial; all the judges; a live bishop; and,
better than all, every pretty woman in the capital. I’ve a devil of a
mind to get suddenly ill, and slip off to Paul’s for the dessert.’
‘No, no, that’s out of the question; we must only put up with our
misfortunes as well as we can. As for me, the dinner here is, I think,
the worst part of the matter.’
‘I estimate my losses at a very different rate. First, there is the
three hundred, which I should certainly have had from Paul, and which
now becomes a very crooked contingency. Then there’s the dinner and two
bottles--I speak moderately--of such burgundy as nobody has but himself.
These are the positive _bonâ fide_ losses: then, what do you say to my
chance of picking up some lovely girl, with a stray thirty thousand,
and the good taste to look out for a proper fellow to spend it with?
Seriously, Jack, I must think of something of that kind one of these
days. It’s wrong to lose time; for, by waiting, one’s chances diminish,
while becoming more difficult to please. So you see what a heavy blow
this is to me: not to mention my little gains at short-whist, which in
the half-hour before supper I may fairly set down as a fifty.’
‘Yours is a very complicated calculation; for, except the dinner, and
I suppose we shall have as good a one here, I have not been able to see
anything but problematic loss or profit.’
‘Of course you haven’t: your English education is based upon grounds far
too positive for that; but we mere Irish get a habit of looking at the
possible as probable, and the probable as most likely. I don’t think we
build castles more than our neighbours, but we certainly go live in them
earlier; and if we do, now and then, get a chill for our pains, why we
generally have another building ready to receive us elsewhere for change
of air.’
‘This is, I confess, somewhat strange philosophy.’
‘To be sure it is, my boy; for it is of pure native manufacture.
Every other people I ever heard of deduce their happiness from their
advantages and prosperity. As we have very little of one or the other,
we extract some fun out of our misfortunes; and, what between laughing
occasionally at ourselves, and sometimes at our neighbours, we push
along through life right merrily after all. So now, then, to apply
my theory: let us see what we can do to make the best of this
disappointment. Shall I make love to Lady Asgill? Shall I quiz Sir
Charles about the review? Or can you suggest anything in the way of a
little extemporaneous devilry, to console us for our disappointment?
But, come along, my boy, we’ll take a canter; I want to show you
Moddiridderoo. He improves every day in his training; but they tell me
there is only one man can sit him across a country, a fellow I don’t
much fancy, by-the-bye; but the turf, like poverty, leads us to form
somewhat strange acquaintances. Meanwhile, my boy, here come the nags;
and now for the park till dinner.’
During our ride O’Grady informed me that the individual to whom he so
slightly alluded was a Mr. Ulick Burke, a cousin of Miss Bellew. This
individual, who by family and connections was a gentleman, had contrived
by his life and habits to disqualify himself from any title to the
appellation in a very considerable degree. Having squandered the entire
of his patrimony on the turf, he had followed the apparently immutable
law on such occasions, and ended by becoming a hawk, where he had begun
as a pigeon. For many years past he had lived by the exercise of those
most disreputable sources, his own wits. Present at every racecourse
in the kingdom, and provided with that undercurrent of information
obtainable from jockeys and stable-men, he understood all the intrigue,
all the low cunning of the course: he knew when to back the favourite,
when to give, when to take the odds; and, if upon any occasion he was
seen to lay heavily against a well-known horse, the presumption became
a strong one, that he was either ‘wrong’ or withdrawn. But his
qualifications ended not here; for he was also that singular anomaly in
our social condition--a gentleman-rider, ready upon any occasion to get
into the saddle for any one that engaged his services; a flat race, or
a steeplechase, all the same to him. His neck was his livelihood, and to
support, he must risk it. A racing-jacket, a pair of leathers and tops,
a heavy-handled whip, and a shot-belt, were his stock-in-trade, and he
travelled through the world a species of sporting Dalgetty, minus the
probity which made the latter firm to his engagements, so long as they
lasted. At least, report denied the quality to Mr. Burke; and those who
knew him well scrupled not to say that fifty pounds had exactly twice as
many arguments in its favour as five-and-twenty.
So much then in brief concerning a character to whom I shall hereafter
have occasion to recur; and now to my own narrative.
O’Grady’s anticipations as to the Castle dinner were not in the least
exaggerated; nothing could possibly be more stiff or tiresome; the
entertainment being given as a kind of _ex officio_ civility, to the
commander-of-the-forces and his staff, the conversation was purely
professional, and never ranged beyond the discussion of military topics,
or such as bore in any way upon the army. Happily, however, its duration
was short. We dined at six, and by half-past eight we found ourselves at
the foot of the grand staircase of the theatre in Crow Street, with Mr.
Jones in the full dignity of his managerial costume waiting to receive
us.
‘A little late, I fear, Mr. Jones,’ said his grace with a courteous
smile. ‘What have we got?’
‘Your Excellency selected the _Inconstant_, said the obsequious manager;
while a lady of the party darted her eyes suddenly towards the duke, and
with a tone of marked sarcastic import, exclaimed--
‘How characteristic!’
‘And the after-piece, what is it?’ said the duchess, as she fussed her
way upstairs.
‘_Timour the Tartar_, your grace.’
The next moment the thundering applause of the audience informed us that
their Excellencies had taken their places. Cheer after cheer resounded
through the building, and the massive lustre itself shook under the
deafening acclamations of the audience. The scene was truly a brilliant
one. The boxes presented a perfect blaze of wealth and beauty; nearly
every person in the pit was in full dress; to the very ceiling itself
the house was crammed. The progress of the piece was interrupted,
while the band struck up ‘God Save the King,’ and, as I looked upon
the brilliant dress-circle, I could not but think that O’Grady had been
guilty of some exaggeration when he said that Mrs. Rooney’s ball was
to monopolise that evening the youth and the beauty of the capital The
National Anthem over, ‘Patrick’s Day’ was called for loudly from every
side, and the whole house beat time to the strains of their native
melody, with an energy that showed it came as fully home to their hearts
as the air that preceded it. For ten minutes at least the noise and
uproar continued; and, although his grace bowed repeatedly, there seemed
no prospect to an end of the tumult, when a voice from the gallery
called out, ‘Don’t make a stranger of yourself, my lord; take a chair
and sit down.’ A roar of laughter, increased as the duke accepted the
suggestion, shook the house; and poor Talbot, who all this time was
kneeling beside Miss Walstein’s chair, was permitted to continue his
ardent tale of love, and take up the thread of his devotion where he had
left it twenty minutes before.
While O’Grady, who sat in the back of the box, seemed absorbed in his
chagrin and disappointment, I myself became interested in the play,
which was admirably performed; and Lord Dudley, leaning affectedly
against a pillar, with his back towards the stage, scanned the house
with his vapid, unmeaning look, as though to say they were unworthy of
such attention at his hands.
The comedy was at length over, and her grace, with the ladies of
her suite, retired, leaving only the Asgills and some members of
the household in the box with his Excellency. He apparently was much
entertained by the performance, and seemed most resolutely bent on
staying to the last. Before the first act, however, of the after-piece
was over, many of the benches in the dress-circle became deserted, and
the house altogether seemed considerably thinner.
‘I say, O’Grady,’ said he, ‘what are these good people about? There
seems to be a general move among them. Is there anything going on?’
‘Yes, your grace,’ said Phil, whose impatience now could scarcely be
restrained, ‘they are going to a great ball in Stephen’s Green; the most
splendid thing Dublin has witnessed these fifty years.’
‘Ah, indeed! Where is it? Who gives it?’ ‘Mr. Rooney, sir, a very
well-known attorney, and a great character in the town.’
‘How good! And he does the thing well?’ ‘He flatters himself that he
rivals your grace.’ ‘Better still! But who has he? What are his people?’
‘Every one; there is nothing too high, nothing too handsome, nothing too
distinguished for him. His house, like the Holyhead packet, is open
to all comers, and the consequence is, his parties are by far the
pleasantest thing going. One has such strange rencontres, sees such odd
people, hears such droll things; for, besides having everything like a
character in the city, the very gravest of Mr. Rooney’s guests seems to
feel his house as a place to relax and unbend in. Thus, I should not be
the least surprised to see the Chief-Justice and the Attorney-General
playing small plays, nor the Bishop of Cork dancing Sir Roger de
Coverley.’
‘Glorious fun, by Jove! But why are you not there, lads? Ah, I see;
on duty. I wish you had told me. But come, it is not too late yet. Has
Hinton got a card?’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘Well, then, don’t let me detain you any longer. I see you are both
impatient; and ‘faith, if I must confess it, I half envy you; and mind
and give me a full report of the proceedings to-morrow morning.’
‘How I wish your grace could only witness it yourself!’
‘Eh? Is it so very good, then?’
‘Nothing ever was like it; for, although the company is admirable, the
host and hostess are matchless.’
‘Egad! you’ve quite excited my curiosity. I say, O’Grady, would they
know me, think ye? Have you no uncle or country cousin about my weight
and build?’
‘Ah, my lord, that is out of the question; you are too well known to
assume an incognito. But still, if you wish to see it for a few minutes,
nothing could be easier than just to walk through the rooms and come
away. The crowd will be such, the thing is quite practicable, done in
that way.’
‘By Jove, I don’t know; but if I thought---- To be sure, as you say, for
five minutes or so one might get through. Come, here goes; order up the
carriages. Now mind, O’Grady, I am under your management. Do the thing
as quietly as you can.’
Elated at the success of his scheme, Phil scarcely waited for his grace
to conclude, but sprang down the box-lobby to give the necessary orders,
and was back again in an instant.
‘Don’t you think I had better take this star off?’
‘Oh no, my lord, it will not be necessary. By timing the thing well,
we’ll contrive to get your grace into the midst of the crowd without
attracting observation. Once there, the rest is easy enough.’
Many minutes had not elapsed ere we reached the corner of Grafton
Street. Here we became entangled with the line of carriages, which
extended more than half-way round Stephen’s Green, and, late as was the
hour, were still thronging and pressing onwards towards the scene
of festivity. O’Grady, who contrived entirely to engross his grace’s
attention by many bits of the gossip and small-talk of the day, did not
permit him to remark that the viceregal liveries and the guard of honour
that accompanied us enabled us to cut the line of carriages, and
taking precedence of all others, arrive at the door at once. Indeed, so
occupied was the duke with some story at the moment, that he was half
provoked as the door was flung open, and the clattering clash of the
steps interrupted the conversation.
‘Here we are, my lord,’ said Phil.
‘Well, get out, O’Grady. Lead on. Don’t forget it is my first visit
here; and you, I fancy, know the map of the country.’
The hall in which we found ourselves, brilliantly lighted and thronged
with servants, presented a scene of the most strange confusion and
tumult; for, such was the eagerness of the guests to get forward, many
persons were separated from their friends: turbaned old ladies called
in cracked voices for their sons to rescue them, and desolate daughters
seized distractedly the arm nearest them, and implored succour with an
accent as agonising as though on the eve of shipwreck. Mothers screamed,
fathers swore, footmen laughed, and high above all came the measured
tramp of the dancers overhead, while fiddles, French horns, and
dulcimers scraped and blew their worst, as if purposely to increase the
inextricable and maddening confusion that prevailed.
‘Sir Peter and Lady Macfarlane!’ screamed the servant at the top of the
stairs.
‘Counsellor and Mrs. Blake!’
‘Captain O’Ryan of the Rifles!’
‘Lord Dumboy-----’
‘Dunboyne, you villain!’
‘Ay, Lord Dunboyne and five ladies!’
Such were the announcements that preceded us as we wended our way slowly
on, while I could distinguish Mr. Rooney’s voice receiving and welcoming
his guests, for which purpose he used a formula, in part derived from
the practice of an auction-room.
‘Walk in, ladies and gentlemen, walk in. Whist, tea, dancing, negus, and
blind-hookey--delighted to see you--walk in’; and so, _da capo_, only
varying the ritual when a lord or a baronet necessitated a change of
title.
‘You’re quite right, O’Grady; I wouldn’t have lost this for a great
deal,’ whispered the duke.
‘Now, my lord, permit me,’ said Phil. ‘Hinton and I will engage Mr.
Rooney in conversation, while your grace can pass on and mix with the
crowd.’
‘Walk in, walk in, ladies and---- Ah! how are you, Captain? This is
kind of you---- Mr. Hinton, your humble servant---- Whist, dancing,
blind-hookey, and negus--walk in--and, Captain Phil,’ added he in a
whisper, ‘a bit of supper by-and-by below-stairs.’
‘I must tell you an excellent thing, Rooney, before I forget it,’ said
O’Grady, turning the host’s attention away from the door as he spoke,
and inventing some imaginary secret for the occasion; while I followed
his grace, who now was so inextricably jammed up in the dense mob that
any recognition of him would have been very difficult, if not actually
impossible.
For some time I could perceive that the duke’s attention was devoted to
the conversation about him. Some half-dozen ladies were carrying on a
very active and almost acrimonious controversy on the subject of dress;
not, however, with any artistic pretension of regulating costume or
colour, not discussing the rejection of an old or the adoption of a
new mode, but with a much more practical spirit of inquiry they were
appraising and valuing each other’s finery, in the most sincere and
simple way imaginable.
‘Seven-and-sixpence a yard, my dear; you ‘ll never get it less, I assure
you.’ ‘That’s elegant lace, Mrs. Mahony; was it run, ma’am?’ Mrs. Mahony
bridled at the suggestion, and replied that, though neither her lace nor
her diamonds were Irish---- ‘Six breadths, ma’am, always in the skirt,’
said a fat, little, dumpy woman, holding up her satin petticoat in
evidence.
‘I say, Hinton,’ whispered the duke, ‘I hope they won’t end by an
examination of us. But what the deuce is going on here?’
This remark was caused by a very singular movement in the room.
The crowd which had succeeded to the dancers, and filled the large
drawing-room from end to end, now fell back to either wall, leaving a
space of about a yard wide down the entire centre of the room, as though
some performance was about to be enacted or some procession to march
there.
‘What can it be?’ said the duke; ‘some foolery of O’Grady’s, depend upon
it; for look at him up there talking to the band.’
As he spoke, the musicians struck up the grand march in _Blue Beard_,
and Mrs. Paul Rooney appeared in the open space, in all the plenitude of
her charms--a perfect blaze of rouge, red feathers, and rubies--marching
in solemn state. She moved along in time to the music, followed by Paul,
whose cunning eyes twinkled with more than a common shrewdness, as he
peered here and there through the crowd. They came straight towards
where we were standing; and while a whispered murmur ran through the
room, the various persons around us drew back, leaving the duke
and myself completely isolated. Before his grace could recover his
concealment, Mrs. Rooney stood before him. The music suddenly ceased;
while the lady, disposing her petticoats as though the object were to
conceal all the company behind her, curtsied down to the very floor.
‘Ah, your grace,’ uttered in an accent of the most melting tenderness,
were the only words she could speak, as she bestowed a look of still
more speaking softness. ‘Ah, did I ever hope to see the day when your
Highness would honour----’
‘My dear madam,’ said the duke, taking her hand with great courtesy,
‘pray don’t overwhelm me with obligations. A very natural, I hope a very
pardonable desire, to witness hospitality I have heard so much of, has
led me to intrude thus uninvited upon you. Will you allow me to make Mr.
Rooney’s acquaintance?’
Mrs. Rooney moved gracefully to one side, waving her hand with the air
of a magician about to summons an attorney from the earth, when suddenly
a change came over his grace’s features; and, as he covered his mouth
with his handkerchief, it was with the greatest difficulty he refrained
from an open burst of laughter. The figure before him was certainly not
calculated to suggest gravity.
Mr. Paul Rooney for the first time in his life found himself the host
of a viceroy, and, amid the fumes of his wine and the excitement of
the scene, entertained some very confused notion of certain ceremonies
observable on such occasions. He had read of curious observances in the
East, and strange forms of etiquette in China, and probably, had the
Khan of Tartary dropped in on the evening in question, his memory would
have supplied him with some hints for his reception; but, with the
representative of Britannic Majesty, before whom he was so completely
overpowered, he could not think of, nor decide upon anything. A very
misty impression flitted through his mind, that people occasionally
knelt before a Lord Lieutenant; but whether they did so at certain
moments, or as a general practice, for the life of him he could not
tell. While, therefore, the dread of omitting a customary etiquette
weighed with him on the one hand, the fear of ridicule actuated him on
the other; and thus he advanced into the presence with bent knees and a
supplicating look eagerly turned towards the duke, ready at any moment
to drop down or stand upright before him as the circumstances might
warrant.
[Illustration: 128]
Entering at once into the spirit of the scene, the duke bowed with
the most formal courtesy, while he vouchsafed to Mr. Rooney some few
expressions of compliment. At the same time, drawing Mrs. Rooney’s arm
within his own, he led her down the room, with a grace and dignity of
manner no one was more master of than himself. As for Paul, apparently
unable to stand upright under the increasing load of favours that
fortune was showering upon his head, he looked over his shoulder at Mrs.
Rooney, as she marched off in triumph, with the same exuberant triumph
Young used to throw into Othello, as he passionately exclaims--
‘Excellent wench I perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee!’
Not but that, at the very moment in question, the object of it was most
ungratefully oblivious of Mr. Rooney and his affection.
Had Mrs. Paul Rooney been asked on the morning after her ball, what
was her most accurate notion of Elysian bliss, she probably would have
answered--leaning upon a viceroy’s arm in her own ball-room, under the
envious stare and jealous gaze of eight hundred assembled guests. Her
flushed look, her flashing eye, the trembling hand with which she waved
her fan, the proud imperious step, all spoke of triumph. In fact,
such was the halo of reverence, such the reflected brightness the
representative of monarchy then bore, she felt it a prouder honour to
be thus escorted, than if the Emperor of all the Russias had deigned
to grace her mansion with his presence. How she loved to run over every
imaginable title she conceived applicable to his rank, ‘Your Royal
Highness,’ ‘Your Grace,’ ‘Your noble Lordship,’ varying and combining
them like a a child who runs his erring fingers over the keys of a
pianoforte, and is delighted with the efforts of his skill.
While this kingly scene was thus enacting, the ballroom resumed its
former life and vivacity. This indeed was owing to O’Grady. No sooner
had his scheme succeeded of delivering up the duke into the hands of the
Rooneys, than he set about restoring such a degree of turmoil, tumult,
noise, and merriment, as, while it should amuse his grace, would rescue
him from the annoyance of being stared at by many who never had walked
the boards with a live viceroy.
‘Isn’t it gloriously done, Hinton?’ he whispered in my ear as he passed.
‘Now lend me your aid, my boy, to keep the whole thing moving. Get a
partner as quick as you can, and let us try if we can’t do the honours
of the house, while the master and mistress are basking in the sunshine
of royal favour.’
As he spoke, the band struck up ‘Haste to the Wedding!’ The dancers
assumed their places--Phil himself flying hither and thither, arranging,
directing, ordering, countermanding, providing partners for persons he
had never seen before, and introducing individuals of whose very names
he was ignorant.
‘Push along, Hinton,’ said he; ‘only set them going. Speak to every
one--half the men in the room answer to the name of “Bob,” and all the
young ladies are “Miss Magees.” Then go it, my boy; this is a great
night for Ireland!’
This happy land, indeed, which, like a vast powder-magazine, only wants
but the smallest spark to ignite it, is always prepared for an explosion
of fun. No sooner than did O’Grady, taking out the fattest woman in the
room, proceed to lead her down the middle to the liveliest imaginable
country-dance, than at once the contagious spirit flew through the
room, and dancers pressed in from every side. Champagne served round in
abundance, added to the excitement; and, as eight-and-thirty couple made
the floor vibrate beneath them, such a scene of noise, laughter, uproar,
and merriment ensued, as it were difficult to conceive or describe.
CHAPTER X. A FINALE TO AN EVENING
A ball, like a battle, has its critical moment: that one short and
subtle point, on which its trembling fate would seem to hesitate, ere it
incline to this side or that. In both, such is the time for generalship
to display itself--and of this my friend O’Grady seemed well aware; for,
calling up his reserve for an attack in force, he ordered strong
negus for the band; and ere many minutes, the increased vigour of the
instruments attested that the order had been attended to.
‘Right and left!’ ‘Hands across!’ ‘Here we are!’ ‘This way, Peter!’ ‘Ah!
Captain, you ‘re a droll crayture!’ ‘Move along, alderman!’ ‘That negus
is mighty strong!’ ‘The Lord grant the house is-----’
Such and such like phrases broke around me, as, under the orders of
the irresistible Phil, I shuffled down the middle with a dumpy little
school-girl, with red hair and red shoes; which, added to her capering
motion, gave her a most unhappy resemblance to a cork fairy.
‘You are a trump, Jack,’ said Phil. ‘Never give in. I never was in such
spirits in my life. Two bottles of champagne under my belt, and a cheque
for three hundred Paul has just given me without a scrape of my pen; it
might have been five if I had only had presence of mind.’
‘Where is Miss Bellew all this time?’ inquired I.
‘I only saw her a moment; she looks saucy, and won’t dance.’
My pride, somewhat stimulated by a fact which I could not help
interpreting in Miss Bellew’s favour, I went through the rooms in search
of her, and at length discovered her in a boudoir, where a whist-party
were assembled. She was sitting upon a sofa, beside a tall,
venerable-looking old man, to whom she was listening with a semblance of
the greatest attention as I entered. I had some time to observe her,
and could not help feeling struck how much handsomer she was than I had
formerly supposed. Her figure, slightly above the middle size, and
most graceful in all its proportions, was, perhaps, a little too much
disposed to embonpoint; the character of her features, however, seemed
to suit, if not actually to require as much. Her eyes of deep blue, set
well beneath her brow, had a look of intensity in them that evidenced
thought; but the other features relieved by their graceful softness
this strong expression, and a nose short and slightly, very slightly
_retroussé_, with a mouth, the very perfection of eloquent and winning
softness, made ample amends to those who prefer charms purely feminine
to beauty of a severer character. Her hair, too, was of that deep auburn
through which a golden light seems for ever playing; and this, contrary
to the taste of the day, she wore simply braided upon her temple and
cheeks, marking the oval contour of her face, and displaying, by this
graceful coquetry, the perfect chiselling of her features. Let me add
to this, that her voice was low and soft in all its tones; and, if the
provincialism with which she spoke did at first offend my ear, I learned
afterwards to think that the breathing intonations of the west lent a
charm of their own to all she said, deepening the pathos of a simple
story, or heightening the drollery of a merry one. Yes, laugh if you
will, ye high-bred and high-born denizens of a richer sphere, whose
ears, attuned to the rhythm of Metastasio, softly borne on the strains
of Donizetti, can scarce pardon the intrusion of your native tongue in
the everyday concerns of life--smile if it so please ye; but from the
lips of a lovely woman, a little, _a very little_ of the brogue is
most seductive. Whether the subject be grave or gay, whether mirth or
melancholy be the mood, like the varnish upon a picture, it brings out
all the colour into strong effect, brightening the lights, and deepening
the shadows; and then, somehow, there is an air of _naïveté_, a tone of
simplicity about it, that appeals equally to your heart as your hearing.
Seeing that the conversation in which she was engaged seemed to engross
her entire attention, I was about to retire without addressing her,
when suddenly she turned round and her eyes met mine. I accordingly came
forward, and, after a few of the commonplace civilities of the moment,
asked her to dance.
‘Pray, excuse me, Mr. Hinton; I have declined already several times. I
have been fortunate enough to meet with a very old and dear friend of my
father----’
‘Who is much too attached to his daughter to permit her to waste an
entire evening upon him. No, sir, if you will allow me, I will resign
Miss Bellew to your care.’
She said something in a low voice, to which he muttered in reply. The
only words which I could catch--‘No, no; very different, indeed; this
is a most proper person’--seemed, as they were accompanied by a smile
of much kindness, in some way to concern me; and the next moment Miss
Bellew took my arm and accompanied me to the ball-room.
As I passed the sofa where the duke and Mrs. Rooney were still seated,
his grace nodded familiarly to me, with a gesture of approval; while
Mrs. Paul clasped both her hands before her with a movement of ecstasy,
and seemed about to bestow upon us a maternal blessing. Fearful of
incurring a scene, Miss Bellew hastened on, and, as her arm trembled
within mine, I could perceive how deeply the ridicule of her friend’s
position wounded her own pride.
Meanwhile, I could just catch the tones of Mrs. Rooney’s voice,
explaining to the duke Miss Bellow’s pedigree. ‘One of the oldest
families of the land, your grace; came over with Romulus and Remus; and,
if it were not for Oliver Cromwell and the Danes----’ The confounded
fiddles lost the rest, and I was left in the dark, to guess what these
strange allies had inflicted upon the Bellew family.
The dancing now began, and only between the intervals of the cotillon
had I an opportunity of conversing with my partner. Few and brief as
these occasions were, I was delighted to find in her a tone and manner
quite different from anything I had ever met before. Although having
seen scarcely anything of the world, her knowledge of character seemed
an instinct, and her quick appreciation of the ludicrous features of
many of the company was accompanied by a naïve expression, and at the
same time a witty terseness of phrase, that showed me how much real
intelligence lay beneath that laughing look. Unlike my fair cousin, Lady
Julia, her raillery never wounded: hers were the fanciful combinations
which a vivid and sparkling imagination conjures up, but never the
barbed and bitter arrows of sarcasm. Catching up in a second any passing
absurdity, she could laugh at the scene, yet seem to spare the actor.
Julia, on the contrary, with what the French call _l’esprit moqueur_,
never felt that her wit had hit its mark till she saw her victim
writhing and quivering beneath her.
There is always something in being the partner of the belle of a
ball-room. The little bit of envy and jealousy, whose limit is to be the
duration of a waltz or quadrille, has somehow its feeling of pleasure.
There is the reflective flattery in the thought of a fancied preference,
that raises one in his own esteem; and, as the muttered compliments and
half-spoken praises of the bystanders fall upon your ears, you seem to
feel that you are a kind of shareholder in the company, and ought to
retire from business with your portion of the profits. Such, I know,
were some of my feelings at the period in question; and, as I pulled up
my stock and adjusted my sash, I looked upon the crowd about me with a
sense of considerable self-satisfaction, and began really for the first
time to enjoy myself.
Scarcely was the dance concluded, when a general movement was
perceptible towards the door, and the word ‘supper,’ repeated from voice
to voice, announced that the merriest hour in Irish life had sounded.
Delighted to have Miss Bellew for my companion, I edged my way into the
mass, and was borne along on the current.
The view from the top of the staircase was sufficiently amusing: a
waving mass of feathers of every shape and hue, a crowd of spangled
turbans, bald and powdered heads, seemed wedged inextricably together,
swaying backwards and forwards with one impulse, as the crowd at the
door of the supper-room advanced or receded. The crash of plates and
knives, the jingling of glasses, the popping of champagne corks, told
that the attack had begun, had not even the eager faces of those nearer
the door indicated as much. _Nulli oculi retrorsum_, seemed the motto of
the day, save when some anxious mother would turn a backward and
uneasy glance towards the staircase, where her daughter, preferring a
lieutenant to a lobster, was listening with elated look to his tale of
love and glory. ‘Eliza, my dear, sit next me.’--‘Anna, my love, come
down here.’ These brief commands, significantly as they were uttered,
would be lost to those for whom intended, and only served to amuse
the bystanders, and awaken them to a quicker perception of the passing
flirtation. Some philosopher has gravely remarked, that the critical
moments of our life are the transitions from one stage or state of our
existence to another; and that our fate for the future depends in
a great measure upon those hours in which we emerge from infancy to
boyhood, from boyhood to manhood, from manhood to maturer years. Perhaps
the arguments of time might be applied to place, and we might thus
be enabled to show how a staircase is the most dangerous portion of a
building. I speak not here of the insecurity of the architecture,
nor, indeed, of any staircase whose well-tempered light shines down at
noonday through the perfumed foliage of a conservatory; but of the same
place, a blaze of lamplight, about two in the morning, crowded,
crammed, and creaking by an anxious and elated throng pressing towards a
supper-room. Whether it is the supper or the squeeze, the odour of balmy
lips, or the savoury smell of roast ducks--whether it be the approach to
silk tresses, or _sillery mousseux_--whatever the provocation, I cannot
explain it; but the fact remains: one is tremendously given in such a
place, at such a time, to the most barefaced and palpable flirtation. So
strongly do I feel on this point, that, were I a lawgiver, I would never
award damages for a breach of contract, where the promise was made on a
staircase.
As for me, my acquaintance with Miss Bellew was not of more than an
hour’s standing. During that time we had contrived to discuss the
ball-room, its guests, its lights, its decorations, the music, the
dancers--in a word, all the commonplaces of an evening party; thence we
wandered on to Dublin, society in general, to Ireland, and Irish habits,
and Irish tastes; quizzed each other a little about our respective
peculiarities, and had just begun to discuss the distinctive features
which characterise the softer emotions in the two nations, when the
announcement of supper brought us on the staircase. _À propos_, or _mal
à propos_’, this turn of our conversation, let the reader decide by what
I have already stated; so it was, however, and in a little nook of the
landing I found myself with my fair companion’s arm pressed closely to
my side, engaged in a warm controversy on the trite subject of English
coldness of manner. Advocating my country, I deemed that no more fitting
defence could be entered, than by evidencing in myself the utter absence
of the frigidity imputed. Champagne did something for me; Louisa’s
bright eyes assisted; but the staircase, the confounded staircase,
crowned all. In fact, the undisguised openness of Miss Bellew’s manner,
the fearless simplicity with which she had ventured upon topics a
hardened coquette would not dare to touch upon, led me into the common
error of imputing to flirtation what was only due to the untarnished
freshness of happy girlhood.
Finding my advances well received, I began to feel not a little proud of
my success, and disposed to plume myself upon the charm of my eloquence,
when, as I concluded a high-flown and inflated phrase of sentimental
absurdity, she suddenly turned round, fixed her bright eyes upon me, and
burst out into a fit of laughter.
‘There, there! pray don’t try that! No one but an Irishman ever succeeds
in blarney. It is our national dish, and can never be seasoned by a
stranger.’
This pull-up, for such it most effectually was, completely unmanned me.
I tried to stammer out an explanation, endeavoured to laugh, coughed,
blundered, and broke down; while, merciless in her triumph, she only
laughed the more, and seemed to enjoy my confusion.
With such a failure hanging over me, I felt happy when we reached the
supper-room; and the crash, din, and confusion about us once more broke
in upon our conversation. It requires far less nerve for the dismounted
jockey, whose gay jacket has been rolled in the mud of a racecourse,
resuming his saddle, to ride in amid the jeers and scoffs of ten
thousand spectators, than for the gallant who has blundered in the full
tide of a flirtation, to recover his lost position, and sustain the
current of his courtship. The sarcasm of our sex is severe enough,
Heaven knows; but no raillery, no ridicule, cuts half so sharp or half
so deep as the bright twinkle of a pretty girl’s eye, when, detecting
some exhibition of dramatised passion, some false glitter of pinchbeck
sentiment, she exchanges her look of gratified attention for the merry
mockery of a hearty laugh. No tact, no _savoir faire_, no knowledge of
the world, no old soldierism that ever I heard of, was proof against
this. To go back is bad; to stand still, worse; to go on, impossible.
The best--for I believe it is the only thing to do--is to turn approver
on your own misdeeds, and join in the laughter against yourself.
Now this requires no common self-mastery, and an _aplomb_ few
young gentlemen under twenty possess--hence both my failure and its
punishment.
That staircase which, but a moment before, I wished might be as long as
a journey to Jerusalem, I now escaped from with thankfulness. Concealing
my discomfiture as well as I was able, I bustled about, and finally
secured a place for my companion at one of the side-tables. We were too
far from the head of the table, but the clear ringing of his grace’s
laughter informed me of his vicinity; and, as I saw Miss Bellew shrank
from approaching that part of the room, I surrendered my curiosity to
the far more grateful task of cultivating her acquaintance.
All the ardour of my attentions--and I had resumed them with nearly as
much warmth, although less risk of discomfiture, for I began to feel
what before I had only professed--all the preoccupation of my mind,
could not prevent my hearing high above the crash and clatter of the
tables the rich roundness of Mrs. Rooney’s brogue, as she recounted to
the duke some interesting trait of the O’Toole family, or adverted to
some classical era in Irish history, when, possibly, Mecænas was mayor
of Cork, or Diogenes an alderman of Skinner’s Alley.
‘Ah, my dear!--the Lord forgive me! I mean your grace.’
‘I shall never forgive you, Mrs. Rooney, if you change the epithet.’
‘Ah, your grace’s worship, them was fine times; and the husband of an
O’Toole, in them days, spent more of his time harrying the country with
his troops at his back, than driving about in an old gig full of writs
and latitats, with a process-server behind him.’
Had Mr. Rooney, who at that moment was carving a hare in total
ignorance of his wife’s sarcasm, only heard the speech, the chances
are ten to one he would have figured in a steel breastplate and an iron
head-piece before the week was over. I was unable to hear more of the
conversation, notwithstanding my great wish to do so, as a movement of
those next the door implied that a large instalment of the guests who
had not supped would wait no longer, but were about to make what Mr.
Rooney called a forcible entry on a summary process, and eject the
tenant in possession.
[Illustration: 1-0092]
We accordingly rose, and all (save the party around the viceroy) along
with us, once more to visit the ball-room, where already dancing had
begun. While I was eagerly endeavouring to persuade Miss Bellew that
there was no cause or just impediment to prevent her dancing the next
set with me, Lord Dudley de Vere lounged affectedly forward, and mumbled
out some broken indistinct phrases, in which the word da-ance was alone
audible. Miss Bellew coloured slightly, turned her eyes towards me,
curtsied, took his arm, and the next moment was lost amid the crowd.
I am not aware of any readier method of forming a notion of perpetual
motion than watching the performance of Sir Roger de Coverley at an
evening party in Dublin. It seems to be a point of honour never to give
in; and thus the same complicated figures, the same mystic movements
that you see in the beginning, continue to succeed each other in a
never-ending series. You endeavour in vain to detect the plan, to
unravel the tangled web of this strange ceremony; but somehow it
would seem as if the whole thing was completely discretionary with the
dancers, there being only one point of agreement among them, which is,
whenever blown out of breath, to join in a vigorous hands-round; and,
the motion being confined to a shuffling of the feet, and a shaking
of the elbows, little fatigue is incurred. To this succeeds a capering
forward movement of a gentleman, which seemingly magnetises an opposite
lady to a similar exhibition; then, after seizing each other rapturously
by the hands, they separate to run the gauntlet in and out down
the whole line of dancers, to meet at the bottom, when, apparently
reconciled, they once more embrace. What follows, the devil himself may
tell. As for me, I heard only laughing, tittering, now and then a slight
scream, and a cry of ‘Behave, Mr. Murphy!’ etc.; but the movements
themselves were conic sections to me, and I closed my eyes as I sat
alone in my corner, and courted sleep as a short oblivion to the scene.
Unfortunately I succeeded; for, wild and singular as the gestures, the
looks, and the voices were before, they now became to my dreaming senses
something too terrible. I thought myself in the centre of some hobgoblin
orgie, where demons, male and female, were performing their fantastic
antics around me, grinning hideously, and uttering cries of menacing
import. Tarn O’Shanter’s vision was a respectable tea-party of Glasgow
matrons compared to my imaginings; for so distorted were the pictures
of my brain, that the leader of the band, a peaceable-looking old man
in shorts and spectacles, seemed to me like a grim-visaged imp, who
flourished his tail across the strings of his instrument in lieu of a
bow.
I must confess that the dancers, without any wish on my part to detract
from their efforts, had not the entire merit of this transmutation.
Fatigue, for the hour was late, chagrin at being robbed of my
partner, added to the heat and the crowd, had all their share in the
mystification. Besides, if I must confess it, Mr. Rooney’s champagne
was strong. My friend O’Grady, however, seemed but little of my opinion;
for, like the master-spirit of the scene, he seemed to direct every
movement and dictate every change--no touch of fatigue, no semblance of
exhaustion about him. On the contrary, as the hour grew later, and the
pale grey of morning began to mingle with the glare of wax-lights, the
vigour of his performance only increased, and several new steps were
displayed, which, like a prudent general, he seemed to have kept in
reserve for the end of the engagement. And what a sad thing is a ball as
it draws towards the close! What an emblem of life at a similar period!
How much freshness has faded! how much of beauty has passed away! how
many illusions are dissipated! how many dreams the lamplight and chalk
floors have called into life fly like spirits with the first beam of
sunlight! The eye of proud bearing is humbled now; the cheek, whose
downy softness no painter could have copied, looks pale, and wan, and
haggard; the beaming looks, the graceful bearing, the elastic step,
where are they? Only to be found where youth--bright, joyous, and
elastic youth-unites itself to beauty.
Such were my thoughts as the dancers flew past, and many whom I had
remarked at the beginning of the evening as handsome and attractive,
seemed now without a trace of either--when suddenly Louisa Bellew came
by, her step as light, her every gesture as graceful, her cheek as
blooming, and her liquid eye as deeply beaming as when first I saw
her. The excitement of the dance had slightly flushed her face, and
heightened the expression its ever-varying emotions lent it.
Handsome as I before had thought her, there was a look of pride about
her now that made her lovely to my eyes. As I continued to gaze after
her, I did not perceive for some time that the guests were rapidly
taking their leave, and already the rooms were greatly thinned. Every
moment now, however, bore evidence of the fact: the unceasing roll of
carriages to the door, the clank of the steps, the reiterated cry to
drive on, followed by the call for the next carriage, all betokened
departure. Now and then, too, some cloaked and hooded figure would
appear at the door of the drawing-room, peering anxiously about for
a daughter, a sister, or a friend who still lingered in the dance,
averring it ‘was impossible to go, that she was engaged for another
set.’ The disconsolate gestures, the impatient menaces of the shawled
spectres--for, in truth, they seemed like creatures of another world
come back to look upon the life they left--are of no avail: the
seductions of the ‘major’ are stronger than the frowns of mamma, and
though a rowing may come in the morning, she is resolved to have a reel
at night.
An increased noise and tumult below-stairs at the same moment informed
me that the supper-party were at length about to separate. I started
up at once, wishing to see Miss Bellew again ere I took my leave, when
O’Grady seized me by the arm and hurried me away.
‘Come along, Hinton! Not a moment to lose; the duke is going.’
‘Wait an instant,’ said I, ‘I wish to speak to----’
‘Another time, my dear fellow; another time. The duke is delighted with
the Rooneys, and we are going to have Paul knighted!’
With these words he dragged me along, dashing down the stairs like a
madman. As we reached the door of the dining-room we found his grace,
who, with one hand on Lord Dudley’s shoulder, was endeavouring to steady
himself by the other.
‘I say, O’Grady, is that you? Very powerful Burgundy this---- It ‘s not
possible it can be morning!’
‘Yes, your grace--half-past seven o’clock.’
‘Indeed, upon my word, your friends are very charming people. What did
you say about knighting some one? Oh, I remember: Mr. Rooney, wasn’t it?
Of course, nothing could be better!’
‘Come, Hinton, have you got a sword?’ said O’Grady; ‘I ‘ve mislaid mine
somehow. There, that ‘ll do. Let us try and find Paul now.’
Into the supper-room we rushed; but what a change was there! The
brilliant tables, resplendent with gold plate, candelabras, and flowers,
were now despoiled and dismantled. On the floor, among broken glasses,
cracked decanters, pyramids of jelly, and pagodas of blancmange, lay
scattered in every attitude the sleeping figures of the late guests.
Mrs. Rooney alone maintained her position, seated in a large chair, her
eyes closed, a smile of Elysian happiness playing upon her lips. Her
right arm hung gracefully over the side of the chair, where lately his
grace had kissed her hand at parting. Overcome, in all probability,
by the more than human happiness of such a moment, she had sunk into
slumber, and was murmuring in her dreams such short and broken phrases
as the following:--‘Ah, happy day!--What will Mrs. Tait say?--The
lord mayor, indeed!--Oh, my poor head! I hope it won’t be turned.--Holy
Agatha, pray for us! your grace, pray for us I--Isn’t he a beautiful
man? Hasn’t he the darling white teeth?’
[Illustration: 144]
‘Where’s Paul?’ said O’Grady; ‘where’s Paul, Mrs. Rooney?’ as he jogged
her rather rudely by the arm.
‘Ah, who cares for Paul?’ said she, still sleeping; ‘don’t be bothering
me about the like of him.’
‘Egad! this is conjugal, at any rate,’ said Phil
‘I have him!’ cried I; ‘here he is!’ as I stumbled over a short, thick
figure, who was propped up in a corner of the room. There he sat, his
head sunk upon his bosom, his hands listlessly resting on the floor.
A large jug stood beside him, in the concoction of whose contents he
appeared to have spent the last moments of his waking state. We shook
him, and called him by his name, but to no purpose; and, as we lifted up
his head, we burst out a-laughing at the droll expression of his face;
for he had fallen asleep in the act of squeezing a lemon in his teeth,
the half of which not only remained there still, but imparted to his
features the twisted and contorted expression that act suggests.
‘Are you coming, O’Grady?’ now cried the duke impatiently.
‘Yes, my lord,’ cried Phil, as he rushed towards the door. ‘This is too
bad, Hinton: that confounded fellow could not possibly be moved. I’ll
try and carry him.’ As he spoke, he hurried back towards the sleeping
figure of Mr. Rooney, while I made towards the duke.
As Lord Dudley had gone to order up the carriages, his grace was
standing alone at the foot of the stairs, leaning his back against the
banisters, his eyes opening and shutting alternately as his head nodded
every now and then forward, overcome by sleep and the wine he had drunk.
Exactly in front of him, but crouching in the attitude of an Indian
monster, sat Corny Delany. To keep himself from the cold, he had
wrapped himself up in his master’s cloak, and the only part of his face
perceptible was the little wrinkled forehead, and the malicious-looking
fiery eyes beneath it, firmly fixed on the duke’s countenance.
‘Give me your sword,’ said his grace, turning to me, in a tone half
sleeping, half commanding; ‘give me your sword, sir!’
Drawing it from the scabbard, I presented it respectfully.
‘Stand a little on one side, Hinton. Where is he? Ah! quite right. Kneel
down, sir; kneel down, I say!’ These words, addressed to Corny, produced
no other movement in him than a slight change in his attitude, to enable
him to extend his expanded hand above his eyes, and take a clearer view
of the duke.
‘Does he hear me, Hinton? Do you hear me, sir?’
‘Do you hear his grace?’ said I, endeavouring with a sharp kick of my
foot to assist his perceptions.
‘To be sure I hear him,’ said Corny; ‘why wouldn’t I hear him?’
‘Kneel down, then,’ said I.
‘Devil a bit of me’ll kneel down. Don’t I know what he’s after well
enough? _Ach na bocklish!_ Sorrow else he ever does nor make fun of
people.’
‘Kneel down, sir!’ said his grace, in an accent there was no refusing to
obey. ‘What is your name?’
‘Oh, murther! Oh, heavenly Joseph!’ cried Corny, as I hurled him down
upon his knees, ‘that I ‘d ever live to see the day!’
‘What is his d----d name?’ said the duke passionately.
‘Corny, your grace--Corny Delany.’
‘There, that’ll do,’ as with a hearty slap of the sword, not on his
shoulder, but on his bullet head, he cried out, ‘Rise, Sir Corny
Delany!’
‘Och, the devil a one of me will ever get up out of this same spot. Oh,
wirra, wirra! how will I ever show myself again after this disgrace?’
[Illustration: 148]
Leaving Corny to his lamentations, the duke walked towards the door.
Here above a hundred people were now assembled, their curiosity excited
in no small degree by a picket of light dragoons, who occupied the
middle of the street, and were lying upon the ground, or leaning on
their saddles, in all the wearied attitudes of a night-watch. In
fact, the duke had forgotten to dismiss his guard of honour, who had
accompanied him to the theatre, and thus had spent the dark hours of the
night keeping watch and ward over the proud dwelling of the Rooneys. A
dark frown settled on the duke’s features as he perceived the mistake,
and muttered between his teeth, ‘How they will talk of this in England!’
The next moment, bursting into a hearty fit of laughter, he stepped
into the carriage, and amid a loud cheer from the mob, by whom he was
recognised, drove rapidly away.
Seated beside his grace, I saw nothing more of O’Grady, whose efforts to
ennoble the worthy attorney only exposed him to the risk of a black eye;
for no sooner did Paul perceive that he was undergoing rough treatment
than he immediately resisted, and gave open battle.
O’Grady accordingly left him, to seek his home on foot, followed by
Corny, whose cries and heart-rending exclamations induced a considerable
crowd of well-disposed citizens to accompany them to the Castle gate.
And thus ended the great Rooney ball.
CHAPTER XI. A NEGOTIATION
From what I have already stated, it may be inferred that my acquaintance
with the Rooneys was begun under favourable auspices. Indeed, from the
evening of the ball the house was open to me at all hours; and, as the
hour of luncheon was known to every lounger about town, by dropping in
about three o’clock one was sure to hear all the chit-chat and gossip
of the day. All the dinners and duels of the capital, all its rows and
runaway matches, were there discussed, while future parties of pleasure
were planned and decided on, the Rooney equipages, horses, servants, and
cellar being looked upon as common property, the appropriation of which
was to be determined on by a vote of the majority.
At all these domestic parliaments O’Grady played a prominent part. He
was the speaker and the whipper-in; he led for both the government and
the opposition; in fact, since the ever-memorable visit of the viceroy
his power in the house was absolute. How completely they obeyed, and how
implicitly they followed him, may be guessed, when I say that he even
persuaded Mrs. Rooney herself not only to abstain from all triumph on
the subject of their illustrious guest, but actually to maintain a kind
of diplomatic silence on the subject; so that many simple-minded people
began to suspect his grace had never been there at all, and that poor
Mrs. Rooney, having detected the imposition, prudently held her tongue
and said nothing about the matter. As this influence might strike my
reader as somewhat difficult in its exercise, and also as it presents a
fair specimen of my friend’s ingenuity, I cannot forbear mentioning the
secret of its success.
When the duke awoke late in the afternoon that followed Mrs. Rooney’s
ball, his first impression was one bordering on irritation with O’Grady.
His quick-sightedness enabled him at once to see how completely he had
fallen into the trap of his worthy aide-de-camp; and although he had
confessedly spent a very pleasant evening, and laughed a great deal, now
that all was over, he would have preferred if the whole affair could
be quietly consigned to oblivion, or only remembered as a good joke for
after dinner. The scandal and the éclat it must cause in the capital
annoyed him considerably; and he knew that before a day passed over,
the incident of the guard of honour lying in bivouac around their horses
would furnish matter for every caricature-shop in Dublin. Ordering
O’Grady to his presence, and with a severity of manner in a great degree
assumed, he directed him to remedy, as far as might be, the consequences
of this blunder, and either contrive to give a totally different version
of the occurrence, or else by originating some new subject of scandal to
eclipse the memory of this unfortunate evening.
O’Grady promised and pledged himself to everything; vowed that he would
give such a turn to the affair that nobody would ever believe a word of
the story; assured the duke (God forgive him!) that however ridiculous
the Rooneys at night, by day they were models of discretion; and at
length took his leave to put his scheme into execution, heartily glad
to discover that his grace had forgotten all about Corny and the
knighthood, the recollection of which might have been attended with very
grave results to himself.
So much for his interview with the duke. Now for his diplomacy with Mrs.
Rooney!
It was about five o’clock on the following day when O’Grady cantered up
to the door. Giving his horse to his groom, he dashed boldly upstairs,
passed through the ante-chamber and the drawing-room, and tapping
gently at the door of a little boudoir, opened it at the same moment and
presented himself before Mrs. Paul.
That amiable lady, reclining _à la_ Princess OToole, was gracefully
disposed on a small sofa, regarding with fixed attention a little
plaster bust of his grace, which, with considerable taste and propriety,
was dressed in a blue coat and bright buttons, with a star on the
breast, a bit of sky-blue satin representing the ribbon of the Bath.
Nothing was forgotten; and a faint attempt was even made to represent
the colouring of the viceregal nose, which I am bound to confess was not
flattered in the model.
‘Ah, Captain, is it you?’ said Mrs. Paul, with a kind of languishing
condescension very different from her ordinary reception of a Castle
aide-de-camp. ‘How is his grace this evening?’
Drawing his chair beside her, Phil proceeded to reply to her questions
and assure her that whatever her admiration for the duke, the feeling
was perfectly mutual. ‘Egad,’ said he, ‘the thing may turn out very ill
for me when the duchess finds out that it was all my doing. Speaking
in confidence to you, my dear Mrs. Paul, I may confess that although
without exception she is the most kind, amiable, excellent soul
breathing, yet she has one fault. We all have our faults.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Mrs. Rooney, as she threw down her eyes as though to say,
‘That’s very true, but you will not catch me telling what mine is.’
‘As I was observing, there never was a more estimable being save in this
one respect---- You guess it? I see you do.’
‘Ah, the creature, she drinks!’
The captain found it not a little difficult to repress a burst of
laughter at Mrs. Rooney’s suggestion. He did so, however, and proceeded:
‘No, my dear madam, you mistake. Jealousy is her failing; and when I
tell you this, and when I add, that unhappily for her the events of
last night may only afford but too much cause, you will comprehend the
embarrassment of my present position.’
Having said this, he walked up and down the room for several minutes
as if sunk in meditation, while he left Mrs. Rooney to ruminate over an
announcement, the bare possibility of which was ecstasy itself. To be
the rival of a peeress; that peeress a duchess; that duchess the lady of
the viceroy! These were high thoughts indeed. What would Mrs. Riley say
now? How would the Maloneys look? Wouldn’t Father Glynn be proud to meet
her at the door of Liffey Street Chapel in full pontificals as she drove
up, who knows but with a guard of honour beside her? Running on in this
way, she had actually got so far as to be discussing with herself what
was to be done with Paul--not that her allegiance was shaken towards
that excellent individual--not a single unworthy thought crossed her
mind--far from it. Poor Mrs. Rooney was purity herself; she merely
dreamed of those outward manifestations of the viceroy’s preference,
which were to procure for her consideration in the world, a position
in society, and those attentions from the hands of the great and the
titled, which she esteemed at higher price than the real gifts of
health, wealth, and beauty, so bounteously bestowed upon her by
Providence.
She had come then to that difficult point in her mind as to what was
to be done with Paul; what peculiar course of training could he be
submitted to, to make him more presentable in the world; how were
they to break him off whisky-and-water and small jokes? Ah,’ she was
thinking, ‘it’s very hard to make a real gentleman out of such materials
as grog and drab gaiters,’ when suddenly O’Grady, wiping his forehead
with his handkerchief, and then flourishing it theatrically in the air,
exclaimed--
‘Yes, Mrs. Rooney, everything depends on you. His grace’s visit--I have
just been with him talking the whole thing over--must be kept a profound
secret. If it ever reach the ears of the duchess we are ruined and
undone.’
Here was a total overthrow to all Mrs. Paul’s speculations; here was a
beautiful castle uprooted from its very foundation. All her triumph, all
her vaunted superiority over her city acquaintances was vanishing like
a mirage before her! What was the use of his coming after all? What
was the good of it, if not to be spoken of, if not talked over at tea,
written of in notes, discussed at dinner, and displayed in the morning
papers? Already was her brow contracted, and a slight flush of her cheek
showed the wily captain that resistance was in preparation.
‘I know, my dear Mrs. Paul, how gratifying it would be for even the
highest of the land to speak of his grace’s condescension in such
terms as you might speak; but then, after all, how very fleeting such
a triumph! Many would shrug their shoulders, and not believe the story.
Some of those who believed would endeavour to account for it as a joke:
one of those odd wild fancies the duke is ever so fond of’--here she
reddened deeply. ‘In fact, the malevolence and the envy of the world
will give a thousand turns to the circumstance. Besides that, after all,
they would seem to have some reason on their side; for the publicity of
the affair must for ever prevent a repetition of the visit; whereas,
on the other side, by a little discretion, by guarding our own
secret’--here Phil looked knowingly in her eyes, as though to say they
had one--‘not only will the duke be delighted to continue his intimacy,
but from the absence of all mention of the matter, all display on the
subject, the world will be ten times more disposed to give credence to
the fact than if it were paragraphed in every newspaper in the kingdom.’
This was hitting the nail on the head with a vengeance. Here was a
picture, here a vision of happiness! Only to think of the duke dropping
in, as a body might say, to take his bit of dinner, or his dish of tea
in the evening, just in a quiet, homely, family way! She thought she saw
him sitting with his feet on the fender, talking about the king and the
queen, and the rest of the royal family, just as he would of herself and
Paul; and her eyes involuntarily turned towards the little bust, and two
round full tears of pure joy trickled slowly down her cheeks.
Yielding at length to these and similar arguments, Mrs. Rooney gave in
her adhesion, and a treaty was arranged and agreed upon between the high
contracting parties, which ran somewhat to this effect:--
In the first place, for the enjoyment of certain advantages to be
hereafter more fully set forth, the lady was bound to maintain in all
large companies, balls, dinners, drums, and déjeuners, a rigid silence
regarding the duke’s visit to her house, never speaking of, nor alluding
to it, in any manner whatever, and, in fact, conducting herself in all
respects as if such a thing had never taken place.
Secondly, she was forbidden from making any direct inquiries in public
respecting the health of the duke or the duchess, or exercising any
overt act of personal interest in these exalted individuals.
Thirdly, so long as Mrs. Rooney strictly maintained the terms of the
covenant, nothing in the foregoing was to preclude her from certain
other privileges--namely, blushing deeply when the duke’s name was
mentioned, throwing down her eyes, gently clasping her hands, and even
occasionally proceeding to a sigh; neither was she interdicted from
regarding any portion of her domicile as particularly sacred in
consequence of its viceregal associations. A certain arm-chair might be
selected for peculiar honours, and preserved inviolate, etc.
And lastly, nevertheless, notwithstanding that in all large assemblies
Mrs. Rooney was to conduct herself with the reserve and restrictions
aforesaid, yet in small _réunions de famille_--this O’Grady purposely
inserted in French, for, as Mrs. Paul could not confess her ignorance
of that language, the interpretation must rest with himself--she was to
enjoy a perfect liberty of detailing his grace’s advent, entering into
all its details, discussing, explaining, expatiating, inquiring with a
most minute particularity concerning his health and habits, and, in
a word, conducting herself in all respects, to use her own expressive
phrase, ‘as if they were thick since they were babies.’
Armed with this precious document, formally signed and sealed by both
parties, O’Grady took his leave of Mrs. Rooney--not, indeed, in his
usual free-and-easy manner, but with the respectful and decorous reserve
of one addressing a favourite near the throne. Nothing could be more
perfect than Phil’s profound obeisance, except perhaps the queenly
demeanour of Mrs. Rooney herself; for, with the ready tact of a woman,
she caught up in a moment the altered phase of her position, and in the
reflective light of O’Grady’s manner she learned to appreciate her own
brilliancy.
‘From this day forward,’ muttered O’Grady, as he closed the door behind
him and hurried downstairs--‘from this day forward she ‘ll be greater
than ever. Heaven help the lady mayoress that ventures to shake hands
with her, and the attorney’s wife will be a bold woman that asks her to
a tea-party henceforth!’
With these words he threw himself upon his horse and cantered off
towards the park to inform the duke that all was happily concluded, and
amuse him with a sight of the great Rooney treaty, which he well knew
would throw the viceroy into convulsions of laughter.
CHAPTER XII. A WAGER
In a few weeks after the events I have mentioned, the duke left Ireland
to resume his parliamentary duties in the House of Lords, where some
measure of considerable importance was at that time under discussion.
Into the hands of the lords justices, therefore, the government _ad
interim_ was delivered; while upon Mrs. Paul Rooney devolved the more
pleasing task of becoming the leader of fashion, the head and fountain
of all the gaieties and amusements of the capital. Indeed, O’Grady
half hinted that his grace relied upon her to supply his loss, which
manifestation of his esteem, so perfectly in accordance with her own
wishes, she did not long hesitate to profit by.
Had a stranger, on his first arrival in Dublin, passed along that part
of Stephen’s Green in which the ‘Hotel Rooney,’ as it was familiarly
called, was situated, he could not have avoided being struck, not only
with the appearance of the house itself, but with that of the strange
and incongruous assembly of all ranks and conditions of men that lounged
about its door. The house, large and spacious, with its windows of
plate-glass, its Venetian blinds, its gaudily gilt and painted balcony,
and its massive brass knocker, betrayed a certain air of pretension,
standing as it did among the more sombre-looking mansions where the
real rank of the country resided. Clean windows and a bright knocker,
however--distinctive features as they were in the metropolis of those
days--would not have arrested the attention of the passing traveller to
the extent I have supposed, but that there were other signs and sights
than these.
At the open hall door, to which you ascended by a flight of granite
steps, lounged some half-dozen servants in powdered heads and gaudy
liveries--the venerable porter in his leather chair, the ruddy
coachman in his full-bottomed wig, tall footmen with bouquets in their
button-holes, were here to be seen reading the morning papers, or
leisurely strolling to the steps to take a look at the weather, and
cast a supercilious glance at the insignificant tide of population
that flowed on beneath them; a lazy and an idle race, they toiled not,
neither did they spin, and I sincerely trust that Solomon’s costume bore
no resemblance to theirs.
More immediately in front of the house stood a mixed society of
idlers, beggars, horseboys, and grooms, assembled there from motives of
curiosity or gain. Indeed, the rich odour of savoury viands that issued
from the open kitchen windows and ascended through the area to the
nostrils of those without, might in its appetising steam have brought
the dew upon the lips of greater gourmands than they were. All that
French cookery could suggest to impart variety to the separate meals of
breakfast, luncheon, dinner, and supper, here went forward unceasingly;
and the beggars who thronged around the bars, and were fed with the
crumbs from the rich man’s table, became by degrees so habituated to the
delicacies and refinements of good living, that they would have turned
up their noses with contempt at the humble and more homely fare of the
respectable shopkeeper. Truly, it was a strange picture to see these
poor and ragged men as they sat in groups upon the steps and on the
bare flagway, exposed to every wind of heaven, the drifting rain soaking
through their frail and threadbare garments, yet criticising, with
practical acumen, the savoury food before them. Consommés, ragouts,
pâtés, potages, jellies, with an infinity of that smaller grapeshot of
epicurism with which fine tables are filled, all here met a fair and a
candid appreciation.
[Illustration: 159]
A little farther off, and towards the middle of the street, stood
another order of beings, who, with separate and peculiar privileges,
maintained themselves as a class apart; these were the horseboys,
half-naked urchins, whose ages varied from eight to fourteen, but whose
looks of mingled cunning and drollery would defy any guess as to their
time of life, who here sported in all the wild, untrammelled liberty of
African savages. The only art they practised was to lead up and down the
horses of the various visitors whom the many attractions of the Hotel
Rooney brought daily to the house. And here you saw the proud and
pampered steed, with fiery eye and swelling nostrils, led about by this
ambulating mass of rags and poverty, whose bright eye wandered ever
from his own tattered habiliments to the gorgeous trappings and gold
embroidery of the sleek charger beside him. In the midst of these,
such as were not yet employed, amused themselves by cutting summersets,
standing on their heads, walking crab-fashion, and other classical
performances, which form the little distractions of life for this
strange sect.
Jaunting-cars there were too, whose numerous fastenings of rope and
cordage looked as though they were taken to pieces every night and
put together in the morning; while the horse, a care-worn and
misanthropic-looking beast, would turn his head sideways over the shaft
to give a glance of compassionating scorn at the follies and vanities of
a world he was sick of. Not so the driver: equally low in condition, and
fully as ragged in coat, the droll spirit that made his birthright was,
with him, a lamp that neither poverty nor penury could quench. Ever
ready with his joke, never backward with his repartee, prepared to
comfort you by assurances of the strength of his car and the goodness of
his horse, while his own laughing look gave the lie to his very words,
he would persuade you that with him alone there was safety, while it was
a risk of life and limb to travel with his rivals.
These formed the ordinary _dramatis persono_, while every now and then
some flashy equipage, with armorial bearings and showy liveries, would
scatter the crowd right and left, set the led horses lashing among
the bystanders, and even break up the decorous conviviality of a
dinner-party gracefully disposed upon the flags. Curricles, tandems,
tilburies, and dennets were constantly arriving and departing. Members
of Daly’s with their green coats and buff waistcoats, whiskered dragoons
and plumed aides-de-camp, were all mixed up together, while on the open
balcony an indiscriminate herd of loungers telegraphed the conversation
from the drawing-room to the street, and thus all the _bons mots_, all
the jests, all the witticisms that went forward within doors, found
also a laughing auditory without; for it is a remarkable feature of this
singular country, that there is no turn of expression whose raillery
is too delicate, no repartee whose keenness is too fine, for the
appreciation of the poorest and meanest creature that walks the street.
Poor Paddy, if the more substantial favours of fortune be not your lot,
nature has linked you by a strong sympathy with tastes, habits, and
usages which, by some singular intuition, you seem thoroughly to
comprehend. One cannot dwell long among them without feeling this, and
witnessing how generally, how almost universally, poverty of condition
and wealth of intellect go hand in hand together; and, as it is only
over the bleak and barren surface of some fern-clad heath the wildfire
flashes through the gloom of night, so it would seem the more brilliant
firework of fancy would need a soil of poverty and privation to produce
it.
But, at length, to come back, the Rooneys now were installed as the
great people of the capital. Many of the _ancien régime_, who held out
sturdily before, and who looked upon the worthy attorney in the light
of a usurper, now gave in their allegiance, and regarded him as the true
monarch. What his great prototype effected by terror, he brought about
by turtle; and, if Napoleon consolidated his empire and propped his
throne by the bayonets of the grand army, so did Mr. Rooney establish
his claims to power by the more satisfactory arguments which,
appealing not only to the head, but to the stomach, convince while they
conciliate. You might criticise his courtesy, but you could not condemn
his claret. You might dislike his manners, but you could not deny
yourself his mutton. Besides, after all, matters took pretty much the
same turn in Paris as in Dublin; public opinion ran strong in both
cases. The mass of the world consists of those who receive benefits, and
he who confers them deserves to be respected. We certainly thought so;
and among those of darker hue who frequented Mr. Rooney’s table, three
red-coats might daily be seen, whose unchanged places, added to their
indescribable air of at-homeishness, bespoke them as the friends of the
family.
O’Grady, at Mrs. Rooney’s right hand, did the honours of the soup; Lord
Dudley, at the other end of the table, supported Mr. Rooney, while to my
lot Miss Bellew fell. But, as our places at table never changed, there
was nothing marked in my thus every day finding myself beside her, and
resuming my place on our return to the drawing-room. To me, I confess,
she formed the great attraction of the house. Less imbued than my friend
O’Grady with the spirit of fun, I could not have gone on from day to day
to amuse myself with the eccentricities of the Rooneys, while I could
not, on the other hand, have followed Lord Dudley’s lead, and continued
to receive the hospitalities of a house while I sneered at the
pretensions of its owner.
Under any circumstances Louisa Bellew might be considered a very
charming person; but, contrasted with those by whom she was
surrounded, her attractions were very great. Indeed, her youth, her
light-heartedness, and the buoyancy of her spirit, concealed to a great
degree the sorrow it cost her to be associated with her present hosts;
for, although they were kind to her, and she felt and acknowledged their
kindness, yet the humiliating sense of a position which exposed her to
the insolent familiarity of the idle, the dissipated, or the underbred
visitors of the house, gradually impressed itself upon her manner, and
tempered her mild and graceful nature with a certain air of hauteur and
distance. A circumstance, slight in itself, but sufficiently indicative
of this, took place some weeks after what I have mentioned.
Lord Dudley de Vere, who, from his rank and condition, was looked upon
as a kind of privileged person in the Rooney family, sitting rather
later than usual after dinner, and having drunk a great deal of wine,
offered a wager that, on his appearance in the drawing-room, not only
would he propose for, but be accepted by, any unmarried lady in the
room. The puppyism and coxcombry of such a wager might have been
pardoned, were it not that the character of the individual, when sober,
was in perfect accordance with this drunken boast. The bet, which was
for three hundred guineas, was at once taken up; and one of the party
running hastily up to the drawing-room, obtained the names of the ladies
there, which, being written on slips of paper, were thrown into a hat,
thus leaving chance to decide upon whom the happy lot was to fall.
‘Mark ye, Upton,’ cried Lord Dudley, as he prepared to draw forth his
prize--‘mark ye, I didn’t say I ‘d marry her.’
‘No, no,’ resounded from different parts of the room; ‘we understand you
perfectly.’
‘My bet,’ continued he, ‘is this: I have booked it.’ With these words
he opened a small memorandum-book and read forth the following
paragraph:--‘Three hundred with Upton that I don’t ask and be accepted
by any girl in Paul’s drawing-room this evening, after tea; the choice
to be decided by lottery. Isn’t that it?’
‘Yes, yes, quite right, perfectly correct,’ said several persons round
the table. ‘Come, my lord, here is the hat.’
‘Shake them up well, Upton.’
‘So here goes,’ said Herbert, as affectedly tucking up the sleeve of
his coat, he inserted two fingers and drew forth a small piece of paper
carefully folded in two. ‘I say, gentlemen, this is your affair; it
doesn’t concern me.’ With these words he threw it carelessly on the
table, and resuming his seat, leisurely filled his glass, and sipped his
wine.
‘Come, read it, Blake; read it up! Who is she?’
‘Gently, lads, gently; patience for one moment. How are we to know if
the wager be lost or won? Is the lady herself to declare it?’
‘Why, if you like it; it is perfectly the same to me.’
‘Well, then,’ rejoined Blake, ‘it is--Miss Bellew!’
No sooner was the name read aloud, than, instead of the roar of laughter
which it was expected would follow the announcement, a kind of awkward
and constrained silence settled on the party. Mr. Rooney himself, who
felt shocked beyond measure at this result, had been so long habituated
to regard himself as nothing at the head of his own table, accepting,
not dictating, its laws, that, much as he may have wished to do so, did
not dare to interfere to stay any further proceedings. But many of those
around the table who knew Sir Simon Bellew, and felt how unsuitable
and inadmissible such a jest as this would be, if practised upon _his_
daughter, whispered among themselves a hope thai the wager would be
abandoned, and never thought of more by either party.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Upton, who was an officer in a dragoon regiment, and
although of a high family and well connected, was yet very limited in
his means. ‘Yes, yes, I quite agree. This foolery might be very good fun
with some young ladies we know, but with Miss Bellew the circumstances
are quite different; and, for _my_ part, I withdraw from the bet.’
‘Eh--aw! Pass down the claret, if you please. You withdraw from the bet,
then? That means you may pay me three hundred guineas; for d--n me, if
I do! No, no; I am not so young as that. I haven’t lost fifteen thousand
on the Derby without gaining some little insight into these matters.
Every bet is a p. p., if not stated to be the reverse. I leave it to any
gentleman in the room.’
‘Come, come, De Vere,’ said one, ‘listen to reason, my boy!’
‘Yes, Dudley,’ cried another, ‘only think over the thing. You must
see----’
‘I only wish to see a cheque for three hundred. And I ‘ll not be done,’
‘Sir!’ said Upton, springing from his chair, as the blood mounted to his
face and temples, ‘did you mean that expression to apply to me?’
‘Sit down, Mr. Upton, for the love of Heaven! Sit down; do, sir; his
lordship never meant it at all. See, now, I’ll pay the money myself.
Give me a pen and ink. I’ll give you a cheque on the bank this minute.
What the devil signifies a trifle like that!’ stammered out poor Paul,
as he wiped his forehead with his napkin, and looked the very picture
of terror. ‘Yes, my lord and gentlemen of the jury, we agree to pay the
whole costs of this suit.’
A perfect roar of laughter interrupted the worthy attorney, and as it
ran from one end of the table to the other, seemed to promise a happier
issue to this unpleasant discussion.
‘There, now,’ said honest Paul, ‘the Lord be praised, it is all settled!
So let us have another cooper up, and then we ‘ll join the ladies.’
‘Then I understand it thus,’ said Lord Dudley: ‘you pay the money for
Mr. Upton, and I may erase the bet from my book?’
‘No, sir!’ cried Upton passionately. ‘I pay my own wagers; and if you
still insist----’
‘No, no, no!’ cried several voices; while, at the same time, to put an
end at once to any further dispute, the party suddenly rose to repair to
the drawing-room.
On passing through the hall, chance, or perhaps design, on Lord Dudley’s
part, brought him beside Upton. ‘I wish you to understand, once more,’
said he, in a low whisper, ‘that I consider this bet to hold.’
‘Be it so,’ was the brief reply, and they separated.
O’Grady and myself, having dined that day in the country, only arrived
in the Rooneys’ drawing-room as the dinner-party was entering it.
Contrary to their wont, there was less of loud talking, less of
uproarious and boisterous mirth, as they came up the stairs, than usual
O’Grady remarked this to me afterwards. At the time, however, I paid
but little attention to it. The fact was, my thoughts were principally
running in another channel Certain innuendoes of Lord Dudley de Vere,
certain broad hints he had ventured upon even before Mrs. Rooney, had
left upon my mind a kind of vague, undecided impression that, somehow or
other, I was regarded as their dupe. Miss Bellow’s manner was certainly
more cordial, more kind to me than to any of the others who visited the
house. The Rooneys themselves omitted nothing to humour my caprices, and
indulge my fancies, affording me, at all times, opportunities of
being alone with Louisa, joining in her walks, and accompanying her on
horseback. Could there be anything in all this? Was this the quarter in
which the mine was to explode? This painful doubt hanging upon my mind I
entered the drawing-room.
The drawing-room of 42 Stephen’s Green had often afforded me an amusing
study. Its strange confusion of ranks and classes; its _mélange_ of
lordly loungers and city beauties; the discordant tone of conversation,
where each person discussed the very thing he knew least of; the
blooming daughters of a lady mayoress talking ‘fashion and the musical
glasses’; while the witless scion of a noble house was endeavouring to
pass himself as a sayer of good things. These now, however, afforded me
neither interest nor pleasure; bent solely upon one thought, eager alone
to ascertain how far Louisa Bellow’s manner towards me was the fruit of
artifice, or the offspring of an artless and unsuspecting mind, I left
O’Grady to entertain a whole circle of turbaned ladies, while I directed
my course towards the little boudoir where Louisa usually sat.
In a house where laxity of etiquette and a freedom of manner prevailed
to the extent I have mentioned, Miss Bellow’s more cautious and reserved
demeanour was anything but popular; and, as there was no lack of beauty,
men found it more suitable to their lounging and indolent habits to
engage those in conversation who were less _exigeante_ in their demands
for amusement, and were equally merry themselves, as mercifully disposed
when the mirth became not only easy but free.
Miss Bellew, therefore, was permitted to indulge many of her tastes
unmolested; and as one of these was to work at embroidery in the small
room in question, few persons intruded themselves upon her--and even
they but for a short time, as if merely paying their required homage to
a member of the family.
As I approached the door of the boudoir, my surprise was not a little to
hear Lord Dudley de Vere’s voice, the tones of which, though evidently
subdued by design, had a clear distinctness that made them perfectly
audible where I stood.
‘Eh! you can’t mean it, though. ‘Pon my soul, it is too bad! You know I
shall lose my money if you persist.’
‘I trust Lord Dudley de Vere is too much of a gentleman to make my
unprotected position in this house the subject of an insolent wager. I’m
sure nothing in my manner could ever have given encouragement to such a
liberty.’
‘There, now, I knew you didn’t understand it. The whole thing was a
chance; the odds were at least eighteen to one against you--ha, ha! I
mean in your favour. Devilish good mistake that of mine. They were all
shaken up in a hat. You see there was no collusion--could be none.’
‘My lord, this impertinence becomes past enduring; and if you
persist----’
‘Well, then, why not enter into the joke? It’ll be a devilish expensive
one to me if you don’t; that I promise you. What a confounded fool I
was not to draw out when Upton wished it! D--n it! I ought to have known
there is no trusting to a woman.’ As he said this, he walked twice or
thrice hurriedly to and fro, muttering as he went, with ill-suppressed
passion: ‘Laughed at, d--n me! that I shall be, all over the kingdom. To
lose the money is bad enough; but the ridicule of the thing, that’s the
devil! Stay, Miss Bellew, stop one minute; I have another proposition
to make. Begad, I see nothing else for it. This, you know, was all a
humbug--mere joke, nothing more. Now, I can’t stand the way I shall be
quizzed about it at all. So, here goes! hang me, if I don’t make the
proposition in real earnest! There, now, say yes at once, and we ‘ll see
if I can’t turn the laugh against them.’
There was a pause for an instant, and then Miss Bellew spoke. I would
have given worlds to have seen her at that moment; but the tone of her
voice, firm and unshaken, sank deep into my heart.
‘My lord,’ said she, ‘this must now cease; but, as your lordship is fond
of a wager, I have one for your acceptance. The sum shall be your own
choosing. Whatever it be, I stake it freely, that, as I walk from this
room, the first gentleman I meet--you like a chance, my lord, and you
shall have one--will chastise you before the world for your unworthy,
unmanly insult to a weak and unoffending girl.’
As she spoke, she sprang from the room, her eyes flashing with indignant
fire, while her cheek, pale as death, and her heaving bosom, attested
how deep was her passion. As she turned the corner of the door, her eyes
met mine. In an instant the truth flashed upon her mind. She knew I had
overheard all that passed. She gasped painfully for breath; her lips
moved with scarce a sound; a violent trembling shook her from head to
foot, and she fell fainting to the ground.
I followed her with my eyes as they bore her from the room; and then,
without a thought for anything around me, I hurriedly left the room,
dashed downstairs, and hastened to my quarters in the Castle.
CHAPTER XIII. A NIGHT OF TROUBLE
Until the moment when I reached the room and threw myself into a chair,
my course respecting Lord Dudley de Vere seemed to present not a single
difficulty. The appeal so unconsciously made to me by Miss Bellew, not
less than my own ardent inclination, decided me on calling him out.
No sooner, however, did calm reflection succeed to the passionate
excitement of the moment, than at once I perceived the nicety of
my position. Under what possible pretext could I avow myself as her
champion, not as of her own choosing? for I knew perfectly well that
the words she uttered were merely intended as a menace, without the
slightest idea of being acted on. To suffer her name, therefore, to
transpire in the affair would be to compromise her in the face of the
world. Again, the confusion and terror she evinced when she beheld me at
the door proved to me that, perhaps of all others, I was the last person
she would have wished to have been a witness to the interview.
What was to be done? The very difficulty of the affair only made my
determination to go through with it the stronger. I have already said my
inclination also prompted me to this course. Lord Dudley’s manner to me,
without being such as I could make a plea for resenting, had ever been
of a supercilious and almost offensive character. If there be anything
which more deeply than another wounds our self-esteem, it is the
assumed superiority of those whom we heartily despise. More than once
he ventured upon hinting at the plans of the Rooneys respecting me,
suggesting that their civilities only concealed a deeper object; and all
this he did with a tone of half insolence that irritated me ten times
more than an open affront. Often and often had I promised myself that a
day of retribution must come. Again and again did I lay this comfort to
my heart--that, one time or other, his habitual prudence would desert
him; that his transgression would exceed the narrow line that separates
an impertinent freedom from an insult, and then---- Now this time had
come at last. Such a chance might not again present itself, and must not
be thrown away.
My reasonings had come to this point, when a tremendous knocking at my
door, and a loud shout of ‘Jack! Jack Hinton!’ announced O’Grady. This
was fortunate. He was the only man whom I knew well enough to consult
in such a matter; and of all others, he was the one on whose advice and
counsel I could place implicit reliance.
‘What the deuce is all this, my dear Hinton?’ said he, as he grasped
my hand in both of his. ‘I was playing whist with the tabbies when it
occurred, and saw nothing of the whole matter. She fainted, didn’t she?
What the deuce could you have said or done?’
‘Could I have said or done! What do you mean, O’Grady?’
‘Come, come, be frank with me; what was it? If you are in a scrape, I am
not the man to leave you in it.’
‘First of all,’ said I, assuming with all my might a forced and
simulated composure, ‘first of all, tell me what you heard in the
drawing-room.’
‘What I heard? Egad, it was plain enough. In the beginning, a young lady
came souse down upon the floor; screams and smelling-bottles followed; a
general running hither and thither, in which confusion, by-the-bye, our
adversaries contrived to manage a new deal, though I had four by honours
in my hand. Old Miss Macan upset my markers, drank my negus, and then
fainted off herself, with a face like an apothecary’s rose.’
‘Yes, yes; but,’ said I impatiently, ‘what of Miss Bellew?’
‘What of her! that you must know best. You know, of course, what
occurred between you.’
‘My dear O’Grady,’ said I, with passionate eagerness, ‘do be explicit.
What did they say in the drawing-room? What turn has been given to this
affair?’
‘‘Faith, I can’t tell you; I am as much in the dark as my neighbours.
After the lady was carried out and you ran away, they all began talking
it over. Some said you had been proposing an elopement: others said you
hadn’t. The Rileys swore you had asked to have your picture back again;
and old Mrs. Ram, who had planted herself behind a curtain to overhear
all, forgot, it seems, that the window was open, and caught such a cold
in her head, and such a deafness, that she heard nothing. She says,
however, that your conduct was abominable; and in fact, my dear Hinton,
the whole thing is a puzzle to us all.’
‘And Lord Dudley de Vere,’ said I, ‘did he offer no explanation?’
‘Oh yes, something pretty much in his usual style; pulled up his stock,
ran his fingers through his hair, and muttered some indistinct phrases
about lovers’ quarrels.’
‘Capital!’ exclaimed I with delight; ‘nothing could be better, nothing
more fortunate than this! Now, O’Grady, listen to my version of the
matter, and then tell me how to proceed in it.’
I here detailed to my friend every circumstance that had occurred from
the moment of my entering to my departure from the drawing-room. ‘As to
the wager,’ said I, ‘what it was when made, and with whom, I know not.’
‘Yes, yes; I know all that,’ interrupted O’Grady; ‘I have the whole
thing perfectly before me. Now let us see what is to be done: and first
of all, allow me to ring the bell for some sherry and water--that’s the
head and front of a consultation.’
When O’Grady had mixed his glass, sipped, corrected, and sipped again,
he beat the bars of the grate a few moments contemplatively with the
poker, and then turning to me, gravely said: ‘We must parade him, Jack,
that’s certain. Now for the how. Our friend Dudley is not much given to
fighting, and it will be rather difficult to obtain his consent. Indeed,
if it had not been for the insinuation he threw out, after you had left
the room, I don’t well see how you could push him to it.’
‘Why, my dear O’Grady, wasn’t there quite cause enough?’
‘Plenty, no doubt, my dear Jack, as far as feeling goes; but there are
innumerable cases in this life which, like breaches of trust in law,
escape with slight punishment. Not but that, when you owe a man a
grudge, you have it always in your power to make him sensible of it; and
among gentlemen there is the same intuitive perception of a contemplated
collision as you see at a dinner-party, when one fellow puts his hand on
a decanter; his friend at the end of the table smiles, and cries, “With
pleasure my boy!” There is one thing, however, in your favour.’
‘What is that?’ said I eagerly.
‘Why, he has lost his wager; that’s pretty clear; and, as that won’t
improve his temper, it’s possible--mind, I don’t say more, but it’s
possible he may feel better disposed to turn his irritation into valour;
a much more common process in metaphysical chemistry than the world wots
of. Under these circumstances the best thing to do, as it strikes me,
is to try the cause, as our friend Paul would say, on the general issue;
that is, to wait on Herbert; tell him we wish to have a meeting; that,
after what has passed--that ‘s a sweet phrase isn’t it? and has got more
gentlemen carried home on a door than any other I know--that after what
has passed, the thing is unavoidable, and the sooner it comes off the
better. He can’t help referring me to a friend, and he can scarcely find
any one that won’t see the thing with our eyes. It’s quite clear Miss
Bellow’s name must be kept out of the matter; and now, my boy, if you
agree with me, leave the whole affair in my hands, tumble into bed, and
go to sleep as fast as you can.’
‘I leave it all to you, Phil,’ said I, shaking his hand warmly, ‘and to
prove my obedience, I’ll be in bed in ten minutes.’
O’Grady finished the decanter of sherry, buttoned up his coat, and
slapping his boots with his cane, sauntered downstairs, whistling an
Irish quick step as he went.
When I had half accomplished my undressing, I sat down before the fire,
and, unconsciously to myself, fell into a train of musing about my
present condition. I was very young; knew little of the world: the very
character of my education had been so much under the eye and direction
of my mother, that my knowledge was even less than that of the
generality of young men of my own time of life. It is not surprising,
then, if the events which my new career hurried so rapidly one upon
another, in some measure confused me. Of duelling I had, of course,
heard repeatedly, and had learned to look upon the necessity of it as
more or less imperative upon every man in the outset of his career. Such
was, in a great measure, the tone of the day; and the man who attained
a certain period of life, without having had at least one affair of
honour, was rather suspected of using a degree of prudent caution in
his conduct with the world than of following the popular maxim of the
period, which said, ‘Be always ready with the pistol.’
The affair with Lord De Vere, therefore, I looked upon rather as a lucky
hit; I might as well make my début with him as with any other. So much,
then, for the prejudice of the period. Now, for my private feelings on
the subject, they were, I confess, anything but satisfactory. Without
at all entering into any anticipation I might have felt as to the
final result, I could not avoid feeling ashamed of myself for my total
ignorance about the whole matter; not only, as I have said, had I never
seen a duel, but I never had fired a pistol twice in my life. I was
naturally a nervous fellow, and the very idea of firing at a word,
would, I knew, render me more so. My dread that the peculiarity of
my constitution might be construed into want of courage, increased my
irritability; while I felt that my endeavour to acquit myself with all
the etiquette and punctilio of the occasion would inevitably lead me to
the commission of some mistake or blunder.
And then, as to my friends at home, what would my father say? His
notions on the subject I knew were very rigid, and only admitted the
necessity of an appeal to arms as the very last resort. What account
could I give him, sufficiently satisfactory, of my reasons for going
out? How would my mother feel, with all her aristocratic prejudices,
when she heard of the society where the affair originated, when some
glowing description of the Rooneys should reach her? and this some kind
friend or other was certain to undertake. And, worse than all, Lady
Julia, my high-born cousin, whose beauty and sarcasm had inspired me
with a mixture of admiration and dread--how should I ever bear the
satirical turn she would give the whole affair? Her malice would be
increased by the fact that a young and pretty girl was mixed up in
it; for somehow, I must confess, a kind of half-flirtation had always
subsisted between my cousin and me. Her beauty, her wit, her fascinating
manner, rendered me at times over head and ears in love with her; while,
at others, the indifference of her manner towards me, or, still
worse, the ridicule to which she exposed me, would break the spell and
dissipate the enchantment.
Thoughts like these were far from assuring me, and contributed but
little towards that confidence in myself I stood so much in need of.
And, again, what if I were to fall? As this thought settled on my mind,
I resolved to write home. Not to my father, however: I felt a kind of
constraint about unburdening myself to him at such a moment. My mother
was equally out of the question; in fact, a letter to her could only be
an apologetic narrative of my life in Ireland--softening down what
she would call the atrocities of my associates, and giving a kind
of Rembrandt tint to the Rooneys, which might conceal the more vivid
colouring of their vulgarity. At such a moment I had no heart for this:
such trifling would ill suit me now. To Lady Julia, then, I determined
to write: she knew me well. Besides, I felt that, when I was no more,
the kindliness of her nature would prevail, and she would remember me
but as the little lover that brought her bouquets from the conservatory;
who wrote letters to her from Eton; who wore her picture round his
neck at Sandhurst, and, by-the-bye, that picture I had still in my
possession: this was the time to restore it. I opened my writing-desk
and took it out. It was a strange love-gift, painted when she was barely
ten years old. It represented a very lovely child, with blue eyes, and a
singular regularity of feature, like a Grecian statue. The intensity of
look that after years developed more fully, and the slight curl of the
lip that betrayed the incipient spirit of mockery, were both there;
still was she very beautiful I placed the miniature before me and fixed
my eyes upon it. Carried away by the illusion of the moment, I burst
into a rhapsody of proffered affection, while I vindicated myself
against any imputation my intimacy with Miss Bellew might give rise
to. As I proceeded, however, I discovered that my pleading scarce
established my innocence even to myself; so I turned away, and once more
sat down moodily before the fire.
The Castle clock struck two. I started up, somewhat ashamed of myself at
not having complied with O’Grady’s advice, and at once threw myself on
my bed, and fell sound asleep. Some confused impression upon my mind of
a threatened calamity gave a gloomy character to all my dreams, and
more than once I awoke with a sudden start and looked about me. The
flickering and uncertain glare of the dying embers threw strange goblin
shapes upon the wall and on the old oak floor. The window-curtains waved
mournfully to and fro, as the sighing night wind pierced the openings
of the worn casements, adding, by some unknown sympathy, to my gloom
and depression; and although I quickly rallied myself from these foolish
fancies, and again sank into slumber, it was always again to wake with
the same unpleasant impressions, and with the same sights and sounds
about me. Towards morning, however, I fell into a deep, unbroken sleep,
from which I was awakened by the noise of some one rudely drawing my
curtains. I looked up, as I rubbed my eyes: it was Corny Delany, who,
with a mahogany box under his arm, and a little bag in his hand, stood
eyeing me with a look, in which his habitual ill-temper was dashed with
a slight mixture of scorn and pity.
‘So you are awake at last!’ said he; ‘‘faith, and you sleep sound,
and’--this he muttered between his teeth--‘and maybe it’s sounder you’ll
sleep to-morrow night! The Captain bid me call you at seven o’clock, and
it’s near eight now. That blaguard of a servant of yours wouldn’t get
up to open the door till I made a cry of fire outside, and puffed a few
mouthfuls of smoke through the keyhole!’
‘Well done, Corny! But where’s the Captain?’ ‘Where is he? Sorrow one
o’me knows! Maybe at the watch-house, maybe in George’s Street barrack,
maybe in the streets, maybe---- Och, troth! there’s many a place he
might be, and good enough for him any of them. Them’s the tools, well
oiled; I put flints in them.’
‘And what have you got in the bag, Corny?’
‘Maybe you’ll see time enough. It’s the lint, the sticking-plaster and
the bandages, and the turn-an’-twist.’ This, be it known, was the Delany
for tourniquet. ‘And, ‘faith, it’s a queer use to put the same bag to;
his honour the judge had it made to carry his notes in. Ugh, ugh, ugh!
a bloody little bag it always was! Many’s the time I seen the poor
craytures in the dock have to hould on by the spikes, when they’d see
him put his hands in it! It’s not lucky, the same bag! Will you have
some brandy-and-water, and a bit of dry toast? It’s what the Captain
always gives them the first time they go out. When they’re used to it,
a cup of chocolate with a spoonful of whisky is a fine thing for the
hand.’
I could scarce restrain a smile at the notion of dieting a man for a
duel, though, I confess, there seemed something excessively bloodthirsty
about it. However, resolved to give Corny a favourable impression of my
coolness, I said, ‘Let me have the chocolate and a couple of eggs.’
He gave a grin a demon might have envied, as he muttered to himself, ‘He
wants to try and die game, ugh, ugh!’ With these words he waddled out
of the room to prepare my breakfast, his alacrity certainly increased by
the circumstance in which he was employed.
No sooner was I alone than I opened the pistol-case to examine
the weapons. They were, doubtless, good ones; but a ruder, more
ill-fashioned, clumsy pair it would be impossible to conceive. The
stock, which extended nearly to the end of the barrel, was notched with
grooves for the fingers to fit in, the whole terminating in an uncouth
knob, inlaid with small pieces of silver, which at first I imagined were
purely ornamental On looking closer, however, I perceived that each of
them contained a name and a date, with an ominous phrase beneath, which
ran thus: ‘Killed!V or thus: ‘Wounded!’
‘Egad,’ thought I, ‘they are certainly the coolest people in the world
in this island, and have the strangest notions withal of cheering a
man’s courage!’
It was growing late, meanwhile; so that without further loss of time
I sprang out of bed, and set about dressing, huddling my papers and
Julia’s portrait into my writing-desk. I threw into the fire a few
letters, and was looking about my room lest anything should have escaped
me, when suddenly the quick movement of horses’ feet on the pavement
beneath drew me to the window. As I looked out, I could just catch a
glimpse of O’Grady’s figure as he sprang from a high tandem; I then
heard his foot as he mounted the stairs, and the next moment he was
knocking at my door. ‘Holloa!’ cried he, ‘by Jove, I have had a night
of it! Help me off with the coat, Jack, and order breakfast, with any
number of mutton-chops you please; I never felt so voracious in my life.
Early rising must be a bad thing for the health, if it makes a man’s
appetite so painful.’
While I was giving my necessary directions, O’Grady stirred up the fire,
drew his chair close to it, and planting his feet upon the fender, and
expanding his hands before the blaze, called out--
‘Yes, yes, quite right--cold ham and a devilled drumstick by all means;
the mulled claret must have nothing but cloves and a slice of pine-apple
in it; and, mind, don’t let them fry the kidneys in champagne; they are
fifty times better in moselle: we’ll have the champagne _au naturel_,
There, now, shut the door; there’s a confounded current of air comes
up that cold staircase. So, come over, my boy; let me give you all the
news, and to begin:--
‘After I parted with you, I went over to De Vere’s quarters, and heard
that he had just changed his clothes and driven over to Clare Street. I
followed immediately; but, as ill-luck would have it, he left that just
five minutes before, with Watson of the Fifth, who lives in one of the
hotels near. This, you know, looked like business; and, as they told me
they were to be back in half an hour, I cut into a rubber of whist with
Darcy and the rest of them, where, what between losing heavily, and
waiting for those fellows, I never got up till half-past four; when I
did, it was minus Paul’s cheque, all the loose cash about me, and a bill
for one hundred and thirty to Vaughan. Pleasant, all that wasn’t it?
Monk, who took my place, told me that Herbert and Watson were gone out
together to the park, where I should certainly find them. Off, then, I
set for the Phoenix, and, just as I was entering the gate of the Lodge,
a chaise covered with portmanteaus and hat-boxes drove past me. I
had just time to catch a glimpse of De Vere’s face as the light fell
suddenly upon it; I turned as quickly as possible, and gave chase down
Barrack Street. We flew, he leading, and I endeavouring to keep up; but
my poor hack was so done up, between waiting at the club and the sharp
drive, that I found we couldn’t keep up the pace. Fortunately, however,
a string of coal-cars blocked up Essex Bridge, upon which my friend came
to a check, and I also. I jumped out immediately, and running forward,
just got up in the nick, as they were once more about to move forward,
“Ah, Dudley,” cried I, “I ‘ve had a sharp run for it, but by good
fortune have found you at last” I wish you had seen his face as I said
these words; he leaned forward in the carriage, so as completely to
prevent Watson, who was with him, overhearing what passed?
“May I ask,” said he, endeavouring to get up a little of his habitual
coolness; “may I ask, what so very pressing has sent you in pursuit of
me?”
‘“Nothing which should cause your present uneasiness,” replied I, in a
tone and a look he could not mistake.
‘“Eh--aw! don’t take you exactly; anything gone wrong?”
‘“You ‘ve a capital memory, my lord, when it suits you; pray call it to
your aid for a few moments, and it will save us both a deal of trouble.
My business with you is on the part of Mr. Hinton, and I have to request
you will, at once, refer me to a friend.”
‘“Eh! you want to fight? Is that it? I say, Watson, they want to make a
quarrel out of that foolish affair I told you of.”
‘“Is Major Watson your friend on this occasion, my lord?”
‘“No; oh no; that is, I didn’t say---- I told Watson how they walked
into me for three hundred at Rooney’s. Must confess I deserved it richly
for dining among such a set of fellows; and, as I have paid the money
and cut the whole concern, I don’t see what more’s expected of me.”
‘“We have very little expectation, my lord, but a slight hope, that
you’ll not disgrace the cloth you wear and the profession you follow.”
‘“I say, Watson, do you think I ought to take notice of these words?”
‘“Would your lordship like them stronger?”
‘“One moment, if you please, Captain O’Grady,” said Major Watson, as,
opening the door of the chaise, he sprang out. “Lord Dudley de Vere has
detailed to me, and of course correctly, the whole of his last night’s
proceedings. He has expressed himself as ready and anxious to apologise
to your friend for any offence he may have given him--in fact, that
their families are in some way connected, and any falling out would be
a very unhappy thing between them; and, last of all, Lord Dudley has
resigned his appointment as aide-de-camp, and resolved on leaving
Ireland; in two hours more he will sail from this. So I trust, that
under every circumstance, you will see the propriety of not pressing the
affair any further.”
‘“With the apology----”
‘“That» of course,” said Watson.
‘“I say,” cried Herbert, “we shall be late at the Pigeon-house; it’s
half-past seven.”
‘Watson whispered a few words into his ear; he was silent for a second,
and a slight crimson flush settled on his cheek.
“‘It won’t do for me if they talk of this afterwards; but tell him--I
mean Hinton--that I am sorry; that is, I wish him to forgive----”
‘“There, there,” said I impatiently, “drive on! that is quite enough!”
‘The next moment the chaise was out of sight, and I leaned against the
balustrade of the bridge, with a sick feeling at my heart I never felt
before. Vaughan came by at the moment with his tandem, so I made
him turn about and set me down; and here I am, my boy, now that my
qualmishness has passed off, ready to eat you out of house and home, if
the means would only present themselves.’
Here ended O’Gradys narrative, and as breakfast very shortly after
made its appearance, our conversation dropped into broken, disjointed
sentences; the burden of which, on his part, was that, although no
man would deserve more gratitude from the household and the garrison
generally than myself for being the means of exporting Lord De Vere, yet
that under every view of the case all effort should be made to prevent
publicity, and stop the current of scandal such an event was calculated
to give rise to in the city.
‘No fear of that, I hope,’ said I.
‘Every fear, my dear boy. We live in a village here: every man hears his
friend’s watch tick, and every lady knows what her neighbour paid for
her paste diamonds. However, be comforted! your reputation will scarcely
stretch across the Channel; and one’s notoriety must have strong claims
before it pass the custom-house at Liverpool.’
‘Well, that is something; but hang it, O’Grady, I wish I had had a shot
at him.’
‘Of course you do: nothing more natural, and at the same time, if you
care for the lady, nothing more _mal à propos_. Do what you will, her
name will be mixed up in the matter; but had it gone further she must
have been deeply compromised between you. You are too young, Jack,
to understand much of this; but take my word for it--fight about your
sister, your aunt, your maternal grandmother, if you like, but never for
the girl you are about to marry. It involves a false position to both
her and yourself. And now that I am giving advice, just give me another
cutlet. I say, Corny, any hot potatoes?’
‘Thim was hot awhile ago,’ said Corny, without taking his hands from his
pockets.
‘Well, it is pleasant to know even that. Put that pistol-case back
again. Ah! there goes Vaughan; I want a word with him.’
So saying, he sprang up, and hastened downstairs.
‘What did he say I was to do with the pistols?’ said Corny, as he
polished the case with the ample cuff of his coat.
‘You are to put them by: we shan’t want them this morning.’
‘And there is to be no devil after all,’ said he with a most fiendish
grin. ‘Ugh, ugh! didn’t I know it? Ye’s come from the wrong side of the
water for that. It’s little powder ye blaze, for all your talking.’
Taking out one of the pistols as he spoke, he examined the lock for a
few minutes patiently, and then muttered to himself: ‘Wasn’t I right to
put in the ould flints? The devil a more ye ‘d he doing I guessed nor
making a flash in the pan!’
It was rather difficult, even with every allowance for Mr. Delany’s
temper, to submit to his insolence patiently. After all, there was
nothing better to be done; for Corny was even greater in reply than
attack, and any rejoinder on my part would unquestionably have made me
fare the worse. Endeavouring, therefore, to hum a tune, I strolled to
the window and looked out; while the imperturbable Corny, opening the
opposite sash, squibbed off both pistols previous to replacing them in
the box.
I cannot say what it was in the gesture and the action of this little
fiend; but somehow the air of absurdity thus thrown over our quarrel
by this ludicrous termination hurt me deeply; and Corny’s face as he
snapped the trigger was a direct insult. All my self-respect, all my
self-approval gave way in a moment, and I could think of nothing but
cross Corny’s commentary on my courage.
‘Yes,’ said I, half aloud, ‘it is a confounded country! If for nothing
else, that every class and condition of man thinks himself capable to
pronounce upon his neighbour. Hard drink and duelling are the national
pénates; and Heaven help him who does not adopt the religion of the
land! My English servant would as soon have thought of criticising a
chorus of Euripides as my conduct; and yet this little wretch not only
does so, but does it to my face, superadding a sneer upon my country!’
This, like many other of my early reflections on Ireland, had its grain
of truth and its bushel of fallacy; and before I quitted the land I
learned to make the distinction.
CHAPTER XIV. THE PARTING
From motives of delicacy towards Miss Bellew I did not call that day
at the Rooneys. For many months such an omission on my part had never
occurred. Accordingly, when O’Grady returned at night to the Castle, he
laughingly told me that the house was in half-mourning. Paul sat moodily
over his wine, scarce lifting his head, and looking what he himself
called nonsuited. Mrs. Paul, whose grief was always in the active mood,
sobbed, hiccupped, gulped, and waved her arms as if she had lost a near
relative. Miss Bellew did not appear at all, and Phil discovered that
she had written home that morning, requesting her father to send for her
without loss of time.
‘The affair, as you see,’ continued O’Grady, ‘has turned out ill for all
parties. Dudley has lost his post, you your mistress, and I my money--a
pretty good illustration how much mischief a mere fool can at any moment
make in society.’
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when I mounted my horse to
ride over to Stephen’s Green. As I passed slowly along Dame Street my
attention was called to a large placard, which, in front of a house
opposite the lower Castle gate, had attracted a considerable crowd
around it. I was spared the necessity of stopping to read by the hoarse
shout of a ragged ruffian who elbowed his way through the mob, carrying
on one arm a mass of printed handbills; the other hand he held beside
his mouth to aid the energy of his declamation. ‘Here’s the full and
true account,’ cried he, ‘of the bloody and me-lan-chc-ly duel that tuk
place yesterday morning in the Phaynix Park, between Lord Dudley de Vere
and Mr. Hinton, two edge-du-congs to his Grace the Lord Liftinint, wid
all the particulars, for one ha’penny.’
‘Here’s the whole correspondence between the Castle bucks,’ shouted a
rival publisher--the Colburn to this Bentley--‘wid a beautiful new song
to an old tune--
“Bang it up, bang it up, to the lady in the Green.”’
‘Give me one, if you please,’ said a motherly-looking woman, in a grey
cloak.
‘No, ma’am, a penny,’ responded the vendor. ‘The bloody fight for a
halfpenny! What!’ said he; ‘would you have an Irish melody and the
picture of an illigint female for a copper?’
‘Sing us the song, Peter,’ called out another.
‘This is too bad!’ said I passionately, as, driving the spurs into my
horse, I dashed through the ragged mob, upsetting and overturning all
before me. Not, however, before I was recognised; and, as I cantered
down the street, a shout of derision, and a hailstorm of offensive
epithets followed me.
It was, I confess, some time before I recovered my equanimity enough to
think of my visit. For myself, individually, I cared little or nothing;
but who could tell in what form these things might reach my friends in
England?--how garbled! how exaggerated! how totally perverted! And then,
too, Miss Bellew! It was evident that she was alluded to. I trembled
to think that her name, polluted by the lips of such wretches as these,
should be cried through the dark alleys and purlieus of the capital; a
scoff and a mockery among the very outcasts of vice.
As I turned the corner of Grafton Street a showy carriage with four grey
horses passed me by. I knew it was the Rooney equipage, and although for
a moment I was chagrined that the object of my visit was defeated, on
second thoughts I satisfied myself that, perhaps, it was quite as well;
so I rode on to leave my card. On reaching the door, from which already
some visitors were turning away, I discovered that I had forgotten my
ticket-case; so I dismounted to write my name in the visiting-book;
for this observance among great people Mrs. Rooney had borrowed, to the
manifest horror and dismay of many respectable citizens.
‘A note for you, sir,’ said the butler, in his most silvery accent, as
he placed a small sealed billet in my hand.
I opened it hastily. It contained but two lines:
‘Miss Bellew requests Mr. Hinton will kindly favour her with a few
moments’ conversation at an early opportunity.’
‘Is Miss Bellew at home?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the servant, who stood waiting to precede me upstairs,
and announce me.
‘Mr. Hinton,’ said the man; and the words echoed in the empty
drawing-room, as he closed the door behind me. The next moment I heard
the rustle of a silk dress, and Miss Bellew came out of the boudoir and
walked towards me. Contrary to her usual habit--which was to hold out
her hand to me--she now came timidly, hesitatingly forward, her eyes
downcast, and her whole air and appearance indicating, not only the
traces of sorrow, but of physical suffering.
‘Mr. Hinton,’ said she, in a voice every accent of which vibrated on my
heart, ‘I have taken the liberty to ask a few moments’ interview with
you; for, although it is not only probable, but almost certain, we shall
not meet again, yet I wish to explain certain portions of my conduct,
and, indeed, to make them the reason of a favour I have to ask at your
hands.’
‘Permit me to interrupt you for a moment,’ said I. ‘It is evident how
painful the matter you would speak of is to you; you have no need of
explanation, least of all to me. By accident, I overheard that which,
however high my esteem for Miss Bellew before, could but elevate her in
my eyes. Pass then at once, I beseech you, to what you call a favour;
there is no service you can seek for----’
‘I thank you,’ replied she, in a voice scarcely articulate; ‘you have,
indeed, spared me much in not asking me to speak of what it is misery
enough to remember. But it is not the first time my unprotected position
in this house has exposed me to outrage: though assuredly it shall
be the last.’ The tone of indignation she spoke in supplied her with
energy, as she hurriedly continued: ‘Already, Mr. Hinton, persons have
dared to build a scandal upon the frail foundation of this insolent
wager. Your name has been mixed up with it in such a way that no
possible intercourse could exist between us without being construed into
evidence of a falsehood; therefore, I have made up my mind to ask you to
discontinue your visits here, for the few days I may yet remain. I have
already written home; the answer may arrive the day after to-morrow;
and, while I feel that I but ill repay the hospitality and kindness I
have received, and have met with, in closing the door to a most valued
guest, I am assured you will understand and approve my motives, and not
refuse me my request.’
Delighted at the prospect of being in some way engaged in a service,
I had listened with a throbbing heart, up to the moment she concluded.
Nothing could so completely overthrow all my hopes as these last few
words. Seeing my silence and my confusion--for I knew not what to say
--she added, in a slightly tremulous voice--
‘I am sorry, Mr. Hinton, that my little knowledge of the world should
have led me into this indiscretion. I perceive from your manner that I
have asked a sacrifice you are unwilling to make. I ought to have known
that habits have their influence, as well as inclinations; and that this
house, being the resort of your friends----’
‘Oh, how much, how cruelly you have mistaken me! Not on this account,
not for such reasons as you suppose did I hesitate in my reply; far
from it. Indeed, the very cause which made me a frequent visitor of
this house, is that which now renders me unable to answer you.’ A slight
flush upon her cheek and a tremulous motion of her lip, prevented my
adding more. ‘Fear not, Miss Bellew,’ said I, ‘fear not from me; however
different the feeling that would prompt it, no speech of mine shall
cause you pain to listen to, however the buried thought may rack my own
bosom. You shall have your request; good-bye.’
‘Nay, nay, not so,’ said she, as she raised her handkerchief to her
eyes, and gave a soft but sickly smile; ‘you mustn’t go without my
thanking you for all your kindness. It may so chance that one day or
other you will visit the wild west; if so, pray don’t forget that my
father, of whom you have heard me speak so much, would be but too happy
to thank one who has been so kind to his daughter. And, if that
day should come’--here a slight gleam of animation shot across her
features--’ I beseech you not to think, from what you will see of
me there, that I have forgotten all your good teaching, and all your
lessons about London manners, though I sadly fear that neither my dress
nor deportment will testify in my favour; and so, good-bye.’
She drew her glove from her hand as she spoke. I raised the taper
fingers, respectfully, to my lips, and, without venturing another look,
muttered ‘good-bye,’ and left the room.
As step by step I loitered on the stairs, I struggled with myself
against the rising temptation to hurry back to her presence, and tell
her that, although hitherto the fancied security of meeting her every
day had made me a stranger to my own emotions, the hour of parting had
dispelled the illusion; the thought of separation had unveiled the depth
of my heart, and told me that I loved her. Was this true?
CHAPTER XV. THE LETTER FROM HOME
Feigning illness to O’Grady as the reason of my not going to the
Rooneys, I kept my quarters for several days, during which time it
required all my resolution to enable me to keep my promise; and scarcely
an hour of the day went over without my feeling tempted to mount my
horse and try if, perchance, I could not catch even a passing look at
her once more. Miss Bellew was the first woman who had ever treated me
as a man; this, in itself, had a strong hold on my feelings; for after
all, what flattery is there so artful as that which invests us with a
character to which we feel in our hearts our pretension is doubtful? Why
has college life, why has the army, such a claim upon our gratitude at
our outset in the world? Is it not the acknowledgment of our manhood?
And for the same reason the man who first accepts our bill, and the
woman who first receives our addresses, have an unqualified right to our
regard for evermore.
It is the sense of what we seem to others that moulds and fashions us
through life; and how many a character that seems graven in letters
of adamant took its type, after all, from some chance or casual
circumstance, some passing remark, some hazarded expression! We begin by
simulating a part, and we end by dovetailing it into our nature; thence
the change which a first passion works in every young mind. The ambition
to be loved and the desire to win affection teach us those ways of
pleasing, which, whether real or affected, become part and parcel of
ourselves. Little know we that in the passion we believe to be the most
disinterested how much of pure egoism is mixed up; and well is it for us
that such is the case. The imaginary standard we set up before ourselves
is a goal to strive for, an object of high hope before us; and few, if
any, of our bolder enterprises in after-life have not their birth in
the cradle of first love. The accolade, that in olden days by its magic
touch converted the humble squire into the spurred and belted knight,
had no such charm as the first beam from a bright eye, when, falling
upon the hidden depths of our heart, it has shown us a mine of rich
thoughts, of dazzling hopes, of bright desires. This indeed is a change;
and who is there, having felt it, has not walked forth a prouder and a
nobler spirit?
Thoughts like these came rushing on my mind as I reflected on my
passion for Louisa Bellew; and as I walked my room my heart bounded with
elation, and my step grew firm in its tread, for I felt that already a
new influence was beaming on me, a new light was shining upon my path
in life. Musing thus, I paid but little attention to my servant who
had just left a letter upon my table; my eye, at length, glanced at the
address, which I perceived was in my mother’s handwriting. I opened it
somewhat carelessly, for somehow my dear mother’s letters had gradually
decreased in their interest as my anti-Irish prejudices grew weaker by
time; her exclusively English notions I could no longer respond to so
freely as before; and as I knew the injustice of some of her opinions, I
felt proportionably dispose to mistrust the truth of many others.
The letter, as usual, was crossed and recrossed; for nothing, after
all, was so thorough a criterion of fashion as a penurious avoidance
of postage, and in consequence scarcely a portion of the paper was
uncovered by ink. The detail of balls and dinners, the gossip of the
town, the rumoured changes in the ministry--who was to come in and who
to go out; whether Lord Arthur got a regiment, or Lady Mary a son--had
all become comparatively uninteresting to me. What we know and what we
live in, is the world to us; and the arrival of a new bear is as much a
matter of interest in the prairies of the far west as the first night
of a new ballet in the circles of Paris. In all probability, therefore,
after satisfying myself that my friends were well, I should have been
undutiful enough to put my mother’s letter to bed in a card-rack without
any very immediate intention of disturbing its slumbers, when suddenly
the word ‘Rooney’ attracted my eye, and at once awakened my curiosity.
How the name of these people should have come to my mother’s
aristocratic ears I could not conceive; for although I had myself begun
a letter about them, yet, on second thoughts, I deemed it better to
consign it to destruction than risk a discovery, by no means necessary.
I now sat patiently down before the fire, resolved to spell over the
letter from beginning to end, and suffer nothing to escape me. All her
letters, like the preamble of a deed, began with a certain formula---a
species of lamentation over her wretched health; the difficulty of her
case, which, consisting in the absence of all symptoms, had puzzled the
Faculty for years long; the inclemency of the weather, which by some
fatality of fortune was sure to be rainy when Dr. Y------ said it ought
to be fine, and oppressively hot when he assured her she required a
bracing element; besides, it was evident the medical men mistook her
case, and what chance had she, with Providence and the College of
Physicians against her! Then every one was unkind--nobody believed her
sick, or thought her valuable life in danger, although from four o’clock
in the afternoon to the same hour the next morning she was continually
before their eyes, driving in the park, visiting, dining, and even
dancing, too; in fact, exerting herself in every imaginable shape and
form for the sake of an ungrateful world that had nothing but hollow
civilities to show her, instead of tears for her sufferings. Skimming
my eye rapidly over this, I came at length to the well-known paragraph
which always concluded this exordium, and which I could have repeated by
heart--the purport of it being simply a prophetic menace of what would
be the state, and what the feelings, of various persons unknown, when at
her demise they discovered how unjustly, how ungenerously, how cruelly,
they had once or twice complimented her upon her health and looks,
during her lifetime. The undying remorse of those unfeeling wretches,
among whom it was very plain my father was numbered, was expatiated
upon with much force and Christian charity; for as certain joint-stock
companies contrive in their advertisements to give an apparent stability
to their firm, by quoting some well-known Coutts or Drummond as their
banker, so my poor mother, by simply introducing the word ‘Providence’
into all her worldly transactions, thought she was discharging the most
rigid of Christian duties, and securing a happy retreat for herself when
that day should arrive when neither rouge nor false hair would supply
the deficiencies of youth, and death should unlock the jaw the dentist
had furnished.
After this came the column of court gossip, the last pun of the prince,
and a _mot_ of Mr. Canning. ‘We hope,’ continued she, ‘poor Somerset
will go to Madrid as ambassador: to refuse him would be a great cruelty,
as he has been ordered by his medical men to try a southerly climate.’
Hum; ah!--‘Lady Jane to replace Miss Barclay with the Landgravine.’ Very
stupid all this. But come, here we have it, the writing too changes as
if a different spirit had dictated it.
‘_Two o’clock_. I’ve just returned from the Grevilles, seriously ill
from the effect of the news that has reached me. Wretched boy! what have
you done? What frightful career of imprudence have you entered upon?
Write to me at once; for although I shall take immediate steps for your
recall, I shall be in a fever of impatience till you tell me all about
it. Poor dear Lord Dudley de Vere, how I love him for the way he speaks
of you! for although, evidently, your conduct to him has been something
very gross, yet his language respecting you is marked not only by
forbearance, but by kindness. Indeed, he attributes the spirit you have
manifested to the instigation of another member of the staff, whose
name, with his habitual delicacy, we could not prevail upon him to
disclose. His account of that wretched country is distressing indeed;
the frightful state of society, the barbarism of the natives, and the
frequency of bloodshed. I shall not close my eyes to-night thinking of
you; though he has endeavoured to reassure me, by telling us, that as
the Castle is a strong place, and a considerable military force always
there, you are in comparative safety. But, my dear child, who are these
frightful Rooneys, with the odious house where all this gambling and
ruin goes forward? How feelingly poor Lord Dudley spoke of the trials
young men are exposed to! His parents have indeed a treasure in him.
Rooney appears to be a money-lender, a usurer--most probably a Jew.
His wretched wife, what can she be? And that designing minx, niece,
daughter, or whatever this Miss Belloo--what a shocking name!--may be?
To think you should have fallen among such people! Lord George’s debts
are, they say, very considerable, all owing, as he assures me, to his
unfortunate acquaintance with this Rooney, with whom he appears to have
had bill transactions for some time past. If your difficulties were only
on the score of money I should think little of it; but a quarrelsome,
rancorous spirit, a taste for low company, and vulgar associates, and
a tendency to drink--these, indeed, are very shocking features, and
calculated to inflict much misery on your parents.
‘However, let us, as far as possible, endeavour to repair the mishap.
I write by this post to this Mr. Rooney, requesting him to send in his
account to your father, and that in future any dinners, or wine, you may
have at his house will not be paid for, as you are under age. I shall
also let him know that the obscurity of his rank in life, and the
benighted state of the country he lives in, shall prove no safeguard to
him from our vigilance; and as the chancellor dines with us to-morrow, I
think of asking him if he couldn’t be punished some way. Transportation,
they tell me, has already nearly got rid of the gypsies. As for
yourself, make your arrangements to return immediately; for, although
your father knows nothing about it, I intend to ask Sir Henry Gordon to
call on the Duke of York, and contrive an exchange for you. How I hate
this secret adviser of yours! how I detest the Rooneys! how I abhor
the Irish! You have only to come back with long hair, and the frightful
accent, to break the heart of your affectionate but afflicted mother.
‘Your cousin Julia desires her regards. I must say she has not shown a
due respect to my feelings since the arrival of this sad intelligence;
it is only this minute she has finished a caricature of you making love
to a wild Irish girl with wings. This is not only cruel towards me, but
an unbecoming sarcasm towards a wretched people, to whom the visitations
of Providence should not be made matters of reproach.’
Thus concluded this famous epistle, at which, notwithstanding that
every line offended me deeply, I could not refrain from bursting into
laughter. My opinion of Lord Dudley had certainly not been of the
highest; but yet was I totally unprepared for the apparent depth of
villainy his character possessed. But I knew not, then, how strong an
alloy of cunning exists in every fool; and how, almost invariably, a
narrow intellect and a malevolent disposition are associated in the same
individual.
There is no prejudice more popular, nor is there any which is better
worth refuting, than that which attributes to folly certain good
qualities of heart, as a kind of compensation for the deficiency in
those of the head. Now, although there are of course instances to the
contrary, yet will the fact be found generally true, that mediocrity of
mind has its influence in producing a mischievous disposition. Unable to
carry on any lengthened chain of reasoning, the man of narrow intellect
looks for some immediate result; and in his anxiety to attain his
object, forgetful of the value of both character and credit, he is
prepared to sacrifice the whole game of life, provided he secure but the
odd trick. Besides, the very insufficiency of his resources leads
him out of himself for his enjoyments and his occupations. Watching,
therefore, the game of life, he gradually acquires a certain low and
underhand cunning, which, being mistaken by himself for ability, he
omits no occasion to display; and hence begins the petty warfare of
malice he wages against the world with all the spiteful ingenuity and
malevolence of a monkey.
I could trace through all my mother’s letter the dexterity with which
Lord Dudley avoided committing himself respecting me, while his delicacy
regarding O’Grady’s name was equally conspicuous to a certain extent. He
might have been excused if he bore no good-will to one or other of us;
but what could palliate his ingratitude to the Rooneys? What could
gloss over the base return he made them for all their hospitalities and
attention? for nothing was more clear than that the light in which he
represented them to my mother made them appear as low and intriguing
adventurers.
This was all bad enough; but what should I say of the threatened letter
to them? In what a position would it place _me_, before those who had
been uniformly kind and good-natured towards me! The very thought of
this nearly drove me to distraction, and I confess it was in no dutiful
mood I crushed up the epistle in my hand, and walked my room in an agony
of shame and vexation.
CHAPTER XVI. A MORNING IN TOWN
The morning after the receipt of the letter, the contents of which I
have in part made known to the reader, O’Grady called on me to accompany
him into the city.
‘I am on a borrowing expedition, Jack,’ cried he; ‘and there’s nothing
like having a new face with one. Cavendish, Hopeton, and the rest of
them, are so well known, it’s of no use having them. But you, my boy,
you ‘re fresh; your smooth chin does not look like a protested bill,
and you’ve got a _dégagé_, careless manner, a kind of unsuspicious look
about you, a man never has, after a bailiff has given him an epaulette
of five dirty fingers.’
‘But, Phil,’ said I, ‘if you really want money----’
‘My very excellent young friend,’ interrupted he, in a kind of sermon
voice, ‘don’t finish it, I beseech you; that is the very last thing in
the way of exchequer a gentleman is ever driven to--borrowing from a
friend. Heaven forbid! But even supposing the case that one’s friend has
money, why, the presumption is, that he must have borrowed it himself;
so that you are sponging upon his ingenuity, not his income. Besides,
why riddle one’s own ships, while there is an enemy before us to fight?
Please to remember the money-lenders, the usurers, the stockbroking
knaves at fifty per cent, that the world is glutted with; these are the
true game for a sporting gentleman, who would rather harpoon a shark any
day, than spear a salmon.’
‘But what’s become of Paul? Is he not available.’
‘Don’t you know what has happened there? But I was forgetting you ‘ve
kept the house this week past. In the first place, La Belle Louise has
gone home, Paul has taken his departure for the circuit, and Mrs. Paul,
after three days’ sharp hysterics, has left town for her villa, near
Bray--old Harvey finding it doubtless more convenient to visit her
there, with twenty guineas for his fee, than to receive one for his call
at Stephen’s Green.’
‘And what is supposed to be the cause of all this?’ said I, scarce able
to conceal my agitation.
‘The report goes,’ replied he, ‘that some bank has broke in Calcutta
or the Caucasus, or somewhere, or that some gold-mine in Peru, in which
Paul had a share, has all turned out to be only plated goods; for it
was on the receipt of a letter, on the very morning of Paul’s departure,
that she took so dangerously ill; and as Paul, in his confusion, brought
the attorney, instead of the surgeon-general, the case became alarming,
and they gave her so much ether and sal-volatile that it required the
united strength of the family to keep her from ascending like a balloon.
However, the worst of it all is, the house is shut, the windows closed,
and where lately on the door-steps a pair of yellow plush breeches
figured bright and splendent as the glorious sun, a dusky-looking planet
in threadbare black now informs you that the family are from home, and
not expected back for the summer.’
‘Perhaps I can explain the mystery,’ said I, as a blush of shame burned
on my cheek. Read this.’
So saying, I handed O’Grady the letter, doubled down at the part where
Lord Dudley’s mention of the Rooneys began. Grieved as I felt thus to
expose the absurd folly of my mother’s conduct, yet I felt the necessity
of having at least one friend to advise with, and that, to render
his counsel of any value, a perfect candour on my part was equally
imperative.
While his eye glanced over the lines, I walked towards the window,
expecting at each moment some open burst of indignation would escape
him--some outbreak of passionate warmth, at the cold-blooded ingratitude
and malevolence of one whom previously we had regarded but as a fool.
Not so; on the contrary, he read the letter to the end with an unchanged
countenance, folded it up with great composure, and then turning
his back to the fire, he burst out into a fit of the most immoderate
laughter.
‘Look ye, Jack,’ cried he, in a voice almost suffocated with the
emotion, ‘I am a poor man, have scarcely a guinea I can call my own,
yet I ‘d have given the best hack in my stable to have seen the
Rooneys reading that letter. There, there! don’t talk to me, boy, about
villainy, ingratitude, and so forth. The fun of it, man, covers all
the rest. Only to think of Mr. Paul Rooney, the Amphytrion of viceroys,
chancellors, bishops, major-generals, and lord mayors, asked for his
bill--to score up all your champagne and your curacoa, your turtle, your
devilled kidneys; all the heavy brigade of your grand dinners, and
all the light infantry of luncheons, breakfasts, grilled bones, and
sandwiches! The Lord forgive your mother for putting it in his head!
_My_ chalk would be a fearful one, not to speak of the ugly item of
“cash advanced.” Oh, it ‘ll kill me, I know that! Don’t look so serious,
man; you may live fifty years, and never have so good a joke to laugh
at. Tell me, Jack, do you think your mother has kept a copy of the
letter? I would give my right eye for it. What a fearful temper Paul
will be in, on circuit! and as to Mrs. Rooney, it will go hard with her
but she cuts the whole aristocracy for at least a week. There never was
anything like it. To hint at transporting the Princess O’Toole, whose
ancestor was here in the time of Moses. Ah, Jack, how little respect
your mother appears to have for an old family! She evidently has no
classical associations to hallow her memory withal.’
‘I confess,’ said I, somewhat tartly, ‘had I anticipated the spirit with
which you have taken up this matter, I doubt whether I should have shown
you the letter.’
‘And if you had not,’ replied he, ‘I ‘d not have forgiven you till the
day of my death. Next to a legacy, a good laugh is the best thing I
know; indeed, sometimes it is better, for you can’t be choused out of it
by your lawyer.’
‘Laughing is a very excellent practice, no doubt, but I looked for some
advice-----’
‘Advice! to be sure, my boy; and so you shall have it. Only give me a
good training canter of a hearty laugh, and you ‘ll see what running
I’ ll make, when it comes to sound discretion afterwards. The fun of a
man’s temperament is like the froth on your champagne; while it gives a
zest to the liquor of life by its lightness and its sparkle, it neither
detracts from the flavour nor the strength of the beverage. At the same
time, when I begin to froth up, don’t expect me to sober down before
twenty-four hours. So take your hat, come along into town, and thank
your stars that you have been able to delight the heart of a man who’s
trying to get a bill discounted. Now hear me, Jack,’ said he, as we
descended the stairs; ‘if you expect me to conduct myself with becoming
gravity and decorum, you had better avoid any mention of the Rooneys for
the rest of the day. And now to business!’
As we proceeded down Dame Street my friend scientifically explained to
me the various modes there were of obtaining money on loan.
‘I don’t speak,’ said he, ‘of those cases where a man has landed
security, or property of one kind or other, or even expectations,
because all these are easy--the mere rule of three in financial
arithmetic What I mean are the decimal fractions of a man’s
difficulties, when, with as many writs against him as would make a
carpet for his bedroom, he can still go out with an empty pocket in the
morning and come back with it furnished at night. And now to begin. The
maxims of the sporting world are singularly applicable to the practice
before us. You’re told that before you enter a preserve your first duty
is to see that your gun is properly loaded--all the better if it be
a double-barrelled one. Now, look here’--as he spoke he drew from
his sabretache five bills for one hundred pounds each; ‘you see I am
similarly prepared. The game may get up at any moment, and not find me
at half-cock; and although I only go out for a single bird--that is, but
one hundred, yet, if by good-luck I flush a covey, you see I am ready
for them all. The doctrine of chances shows us that five to one is
better than an even bet; so, by scattering these five bills in different
directions, the odds are exactly so many in my favour that I raise a
hundred somewhere.’ ‘And now,’ said I, ‘where does the game lie?’
‘I’m coming to that, Jack. Your rich preserves are all about the
neighbourhood of Clare Street, Park Street, Merrion Street, and that
direction. With them, alas! I have nothing to do. My broad acres have
long since taken wings to themselves; and I fear a mortgage upon Mount
O’Grady, as it at present exists, would be a poor remedy for an empty
pocket. The rich money-lenders despise poor devils like me; they love
not contingencies; and, as Macbeth says, “They have no speculation
in their eyes.” For them, my dear Jack, you must have messuages and
tenements, and outhouses, townlands, and turbaries; corn, cattle, and
cottages; pigs, potatoes, and peasantry. They love to let their eyes
range over a rich and swelling scene of woodland and prairie; for
they are the landscape-gardeners of usury--they are the Hobbimas and
Berghems of the law.
‘Others again, of smaller range and humbler practice, there are,
to whom, upon occasion, you assign your grandfather’s plate and the
pictures of your grand-aunts for certain monied conveniences you stand
in need of. These are a kind of Brobdingnag pawnbrokers, who have fine
houses, the furniture of which is everlastingly changing, each creditor
sending his representative, like a minister to a foreign court; with
them, also, I have nothing to do. The family have had so little to eat
for the last two generations that they trouble themselves but slightly
on the score of silver dishes; and as to pictures, I possess but one
in the world--a portrait of my father in his wig and robes. This,
independent of other reasons, I couldn’t part with, as it is one of the
only means I possess of controlling Corny when his temper becomes more
than usually untractable. Upon these occasions, I hang up the “jidge”
over the chimney-piece, and the talisman has never failed yet.
‘Now, Jack, my constituency live about fleet Street, and those small,
obscure, dingy-looking passages that branch from it on either side. Here
live a class of men who, having begun life as our servants or valets,
are in perfect possession of all our habits of life, our wants, and our
necessities. Having amassed enough by retail robbery of us while in our
service, to establish some petty tavern, or some low livery-stable, they
end by cheating us wholesale, for the loan of our own money, at their
rate of interest. Well aware that, however deferred, we must pay
eventually, they are satisfied--good, easy souls!--to renew and renew
bills, whose current percentage varies from five-and-twenty to forty.
And even, notwithstanding all this, Jack, they are difficult devils
to deal with, any appearance of being hard up, any show of being
out-at-elbows, rendering a negotiation as difficult as the assurance of
a condemned ship for a China voyage. No, my boy; though your house be
besieged by duns, though in every passenger you see a bailiff, and never
nap after dinner without dreaming of the Marshalsea, yet still, the very
moment you cross the precincts of their dwelling, you must put your
care where your cash ought to be--in your pocket. You must wear the easy
smile of a happy conscience, and talk of your want of a few hundreds
as though it were a question of a pinch of snuff, or a glass of
brandy-and-water, while you agree to the exorbitant demands they exact,
with the careless indifference of one to whom money is no object, rather
than with the despair of a wretch who looks for no benefit in life save
in the act for insolvent debtors. This you ‘ll say is a great bore, and
so I once thought too; now, however, I have got somewhat used to it, and
sometimes don’t actually dislike the fun. Why, man, I have been at it
for three months at a time. I remember when I never blew my nose without
pulling out a writ along with my pocket-handkerchief, and I never was in
better spirits in all my life. But here we are. This is Bill Fagan’s,
a well-known drysalter; you’ll have to wait for me in the front parlour
for a moment while I negotiate with Billy.’
Elbowing our way through a squalid and miserable-looking throng of
people that filled the narrow hall of a house in fleet Street, we forced
on till we reached an inner door in which a sliding panel permitted
those within to communicate with others on the outside. Tapping at this
with his cane, O’Grady called out something which I could not catch, the
panel at once flew back, a red carbuncled face appeared at the
opening, the owner of which, with a grin of very peculiar signification,
exclaimed--’ Ah, it’s yourself, Captain? Walk in, sir.’ With these words
the door was opened, and we were admitted into the inner hall. This was
also crowded, but with a different class from what I had seen without.
These were apparently men in business, shopkeepers and traders, who,
reduced by some momentary pressure, to effect a loan, were content
to prop up their tottering credit by sapping the very core of their
prosperity. Unlike the others, on whom habitual poverty and daily misery
had stamped its heavy impress, and whose faces too, inured to suffering,
betrayed no shame at being seen--these, on the contrary, looked downward
or aside; seemed impatient, fretful, and peevish, and indicated in
a hundred ways how unused they were to exigencies of this nature,
muttering to themselves in angry mood at being detained, and feigning a
resolution to depart at every moment. O’Grady, after a conference of a
few moments with the rubicund Cerberus I have mentioned, beckoned to me
to follow him. We proceeded accordingly up a narrow creaking stair,
into a kind of front drawing-room, in which about a dozen persons were
seated, or listlessly lounging in every imaginable attitude--some on
chairs, some on the window-sills, some on the tables, and one even on
the mantel-piece, with his legs gracefully dangling in front of the
fire. Perfectly distinct from the other two classes I have mentioned,
these were all young men whose dress, look, and bearing bespoke them of
rank and condition. Chatting away gaily, laughing, joking, and telling
good stories, they seemed but little to care for the circumstances which
brought them there; and, while they quizzed one another about their
various debts and difficulties, seemed to think want of money as about
the very best joke a gentleman could laugh at. By all of these O’Grady
was welcomed with a burst of applause, as they eagerly pressed forward
to shake hands with him.
‘I say, O’Grady,’ cried one, ‘we muster strong this morning. I hope
Fagan’s bank will stand the run on it. What ‘s your figure?’
‘Oh, a couple of hundred,’ said Phil carelessly; ‘I have got rather a
heavy book on the steeplechase.’
‘So I hear,’ said another; ‘and they say Ulick Burke won’t ride for
you. He knows no one can sit the horse but himself; and Maher, the story
goes, has given him a hundred and fifty to leave you in the lurch!’
‘How good!’ said Phil, smiling; for although this intelligence came upon
him thus suddenly, he never evinced the slightest surprise nor the most
trifling irritation.
‘You’ll pay forfeit, of course, Phil,’ said the gentleman on the
chimney.
‘I fancy not.’
‘Then will you take two fifties to one, against your horse?’
‘Will you give it?’ was the cool reply. ‘Yes.’
‘And I--and I also,’ said different voices round the room.
‘Agreed, gentlemen, with all of you. So, if you please, we ‘ll book
this. Jack, have you got a pencil?’
[Illustration: 202]
As I drew forth my pocket-book I could not help whispering to O’Grady
that there seemed something like a coalition among his opponents. Before
I could conclude, the red face appeared at the door. O’Grady hastily
muttered, ‘Wait for me here,’ and left the room.
During his absence I had abundant time to study those about me. Indeed,
a perfect sameness in their characters as in their pursuits rendered
it an easy process; for as with unguarded frankness they spoke of
their several difficulties, their stories presented one uniform
feature-reckless expenditure and wasteful extravagance, with limited
means and encumbered fortunes. They had passed through every phase of
borrowing, every mode of raising money, and were now reduced to the last
rung of the ladder of expediency, to become the prey of the usurer, who
meted out to them a few more months of extravagance at the cost of many
a future year of sorrow and repining.
I was beginning to grow impatient as the door gently opened, and I saw
my friend, as he emerged from the back drawing-room. Without losing a
moment’s time I joined him. We descended the stairs together, and walked
out into the street.
‘Are you fond of pickled herrings, Jack?’ said O’Grady, as he took my
arm.
‘Pickled herrings! Why, what do you mean?’
‘Probably,’ resumed he, in the same dry tone of voice, ‘you prefer ash
bark, or asafetida?’
‘Why, I can’t say.’
‘Ah, my boy, you ‘re difficult to please, then. What do you say to whale
oil and Welsh wigs?’
‘Confound me if I understand you!’
‘Nothing more easy after all, for of each of these commodities I ‘m now
a possessor to the amount of some two hundred and twenty pounds. You
look surprised, but such is the nature of our transactions here; and for
my bill of five hundred, payable in six months, I have become a general
merchant to the extent I’ve told you, not to mention paying eighty
more for a certain gig and horse, popularly known in this city as the
discount dennet. This,’ continued he with a sigh, ‘is about the tenth
time I’ve been the owner of that vile conveyance; for you must know
whenever Fagan advances a good round sum he always insists upon
something of this kind forming part of it, and thus, according to the
figure of your loan, you may drive from his door in anything, from a
wheel-barrow to a stage-coach. As for the discount dennet, it is as well
known as the black-cart that conveys the prisoners to Newgate, and the
reputation of him who travels in either is pretty much on a par. From
the crank of the rusty springs, to the limping amble of the malicious
old black beast in the shafts, the whole thing has a look of beggary
about it. Every jingle of the ragged harness seems to whisper in your
ear, “Fifty per cent.”; and drive which way you will, it is impossible
to get free of the notion that you’re not trotting along the road to
ruin. To have been seen in it once is as though you had figured in the
pillory, and the very fact of its being in your possession is a blow of
a battering-ram to your credit for ever!’
[Illustration: 205]
‘But why venture into it? If you must have it, let it be like the
pickled herrings and the paving-stones--so much of pure loss.’
‘The fact is, Jack, it is generally passed off on a young hand, the
first time he raises money. He knows little of the town, less of its
secret practices, and not until he has furnished a hearty laugh to
all his acquaintances does he discover the blunder he has committed.
Besides, sometimes you’re hard up for something to carry you about.
I remember once keeping it an entire winter, and as I painted Latitat a
good piebald, and had his legs whitewashed every morning, few recognised
him, except such as had paid for their acquaintance. After this account,
probably, you’ll not like to drive with me; but as I am going to
Loughrea for the races, I ‘ve determined to take the dennet down, and
try if I can’t find a purchaser among the country gentlemen. And now
let’s think of dinner. What do you say to a cutlet at the club, and
perhaps we shall strike out something there to finish our evening?’
CHAPTER XVII. AN EVENING IN TOWN
We dined at the club-house, and sat chatting over our wine till near
ten o’clock. The events of the morning were our principal topics; for
although I longed myself to turn the conversation to the Rooneys, I
was deterred from doing so by the fear of another outbreak of O’Grady’s
mirth. Meanwhile the time rolled on, and rapidly too, for my companion,
with an earnestness of manner and a force of expression I little knew he
possessed, detailed to me many anecdotes of his own early career. From
these I could glean that while O’Grady suffered himself to be borne
along the current of dissipation and excess, yet in his heart he hated
the life he led, and, when a moment of reflection came, felt sorrow for
the past, and but little hope for the future.
‘Yes, Jack,’ said he, on concluding a narrative of continual family
misfortune, ‘there would seem a destiny in things; and if we look about
us in the world we cannot fail to see that families, like individuals,
have their budding spring of youth and hope, their manhood of pride and
power, and their old age of feebleness and decay. As for myself, I am
about the last branch of an old tree, and all my endeavour has been, to
seem green and cheerful to the last. My debts have hung about my neck
all through life; the extravagances of my early years have sat like a
millstone upon me; and I who began the world with a heart brimful of
hope, and a soul bounding with ambition, have lingered on my path like a
truant schoolboy. And here I am, at the age of three-and-thirty, without
having realised a single promise of my boyhood, the poorest of all
imaginable things--a gentleman without fortune, a soldier without
service, a man of energy without hope.’
‘But why, Phil,’ said I, ‘how comes it that you never went out to the
Peninsula?’
‘Alas, my boy! from year to year I have gone on expecting my gazette
to a regiment on service. Too poor to purchase, too proud to solicit, I
have waited in anxious expectancy from some of those with whom, high as
was their station, I’ve lived on terms of intimacy and friendship, that
notice they extended to others less known than I was; but somehow the
temperament that would seem to constitute my happiness, has proved my
bane, and those qualities which have made me a boon companion, have
left me a beggar. Handed over from one viceroy to another, like a state
trumpeter or a butt of sherry, I have been left to linger out my
best years a kind of court-jester; my only reward being, the hour of
merriment over, that they who laughed with, should laugh at me.’
There was a tone of almost ferocity in the way he spoke these words;
while the trembling lip, the flashing eye, and the swollen veins of
his temple betrayed that the very bitterest of all human
emotions--self-scorn--was racking his heart within him.
For some time we were both silent. Had I even known what to say at such
a moment, there was that comfortless expression about his face, that
look of riveted despair, which would have rendered any effort on my part
to console him a vain and presumptuous folly.
‘But come, Jack,’ said he, filling his glass and pushing over the
decanter to me, ‘I have learned to put little faith in patrons; and
although the information has been long in acquiring, still it has come
at last, and I am determined to profit by it. I am now endeavouring to
raise a little money to pay off the most pressing of my creditors, and
have made an application to the Horse Guards to be appointed to any
regiment on service, wherever it may be. If both these succeed, and it
is necessary both should, then, Jack, I ‘ll try a new path, and even
though it lead to nothing, yet, at least, it will be a more manly one
to follow. And if I am to linger on to that period of life when to look
back is nearly all that’s left us--why, then, the retrospect will be
less dashed with shame than with such a career as this is. Meanwhile,
my boy, the decanter is with you, so fill your glass; I ‘ll join you
presently.’
As he spoke, O’Grady sprang up and walked to the other end of the room,
where a party of some half-dozen persons were engaged in putting on
greatcoats, and buttoning up previous to departure. In an instant I
could hear his voice high above the rest--that cheerful ringing tone
that seemed the very tocsin of a happy heart--while at some observation
he made, the whole party around him were convulsed with laughter. In the
midst of all this he drew one of them aside, and conversing eagerly with
him for a few seconds, pointed to me as he spoke.
‘Thank you, my lord, thank you,’ said he, as he turned away. ‘I’ll be
answerable for my friend. Now, Hinton,’ whispered he, as he leaned his
hand upon my shoulder and bent over me, ‘we ‘re in luck to-night, at all
events, for I have just got permission to bring you with me where I
am to spend the evening. It’s no small favour if you knew but all; so
finish your wine, for my friends there are moving already.’
All my endeavours to ascertain where we were going, or to whose house,
were in vain; the only thing I could learn was, that my admission was a
prodigious favour--while to satisfy my scruples about dress he informed
me that no change of costume was necessary.
‘I perceive,’ said O’Grady, as he drew the curtain and looked out into
the street, ‘the night is fine and starlight; so what say you if we
walk? I must tell you, however, our place of rendezvous is somewhat
distant.’
Agreeing to the proposition with pleasure, I took his arm, and we
sallied forth together. Our way led at first through a most crowded and
frequented part of the capital We traversed Dame Street, passed by the
Castle, and ascended a steep street beyond it; after this we took a
turning to the left, and entered a part of the city, to me at least,
utterly unknown. For about half an hour we continued to wander on, now
to the right, now to the left, the streets becoming gradually narrower,
less frequented, and less lighted; the shops were all closed, and few
persons stirred in the remote thoroughfares.
‘I fear I must have made a mistake,’ said O’Grady, endeavouring to take
a short cut; ‘but here comes a watchman. I say, is this Kevin Street?’
‘No, sir; the second turning to your right brings you into it.’
‘Kevin Street!’ said I, repeating the name half aloud to myself.
‘Yes, Jack, so it is called; but all your ingenuity will prove too
little in discovering whither you are going. So come along; leave time
to tell you what guessing never will.’
By this time we arrived at the street in question, when very soon after
O’Grady called out--
‘All right--here we are!’
With these words he knocked three times in a peculiar manner at the door
of a large and gloomy-looking house. An ill-trimmed lamp threw a faint
and nickering light upon the old and ruined building, and I could trace
here and there, through all the wreck of time, some remnants of a better
day. The windows now, however, were broken in several places, those on
the lower storey being defended on the outside by a strong iron railing;
not a gleam of light shone through any one of them, but a darkness
unrelieved, save by the yellow gleam of the street lamp, enveloped the
entire building. O’Gradys summons was twice repeated ere there seemed
any chance of its being replied to, when, at last, the step of a heavy
foot descending the stairs announced the approach of some one. While I
continued my survey of the house O’Grady never spoke, and, perceiving
that he made a mystery of our visit, I resolved to ask no further
questions, but patiently await the result; my impression, however,
was, that the place was the resort either of thieves or of some illegal
association, of which more than one, at that time, were known to
have their meetings in the capital. While I was thus occupied in
my conjectures, and wondering within myself how O’Grady had become
acquainted with his friends, the door opened, and a diminutive,
mean-looking old man, shading the candle with his hand, stood at the
entrance.
‘Good-evening, Mickey,’ cried O’Grady, as he brushed by him into the
hall. ‘Are they come?’
‘Yes, Captain,’ said the little man, as, snuffing the long wick with his
fingers, he held the light up to O’Grady’s face. ‘Yes, Captain, about
fifteen.’
‘This gentleman’s with me--come along, Jack--he is my friend, Mickey.’
‘Oh, I can’t do it by no means, Mister Phil,’ said the dwarf, opposing
himself as a barrier to my entrance. ‘You know what they said the last
night’--here he strained himself on his toes, and, as O’Grady stooped
down, whispered some words I couldn’t catch, while he continued
aloud--‘and you know after that, Captain, I daren’t do it.’
‘I tell you, you old fool, I’ve arranged it all; so get along there,
and show us the light up these confounded stairs. I suppose they never
mended the hole on the lobby?’
‘Troth they didn’t,’ growled the dwarf; ‘and it would be chaper for them
nor breaking their shins every night.’
I followed O’Grady up the stairs, which creaked and bent beneath us at
every step; the hand-rail, broken in many places, swung to and fro with
every motion of the stair, and the walls, covered with green, and damp
mould, looked the very picture of misery and decay. Still grumbling
at the breach of order incurred by my admission, the old man shuffled
along, wheezing, coughing, and cursing between times, till at length we
reached the landing-place, where the hole of which I heard them speak
permitted a view of the hall beneath. Stepping across this, we entered
a large room lighted by a lamp upon the chimney-piece; around the walls
were hung a variety of what appeared to be cloaks of a lightish drab
colour, while over each hung a small skull-cap of yellow leather.
‘Don’t you hear the knocking below, Mickey? There’s some one at the
door,’ said O’Grady.
The little man left the room, and as we were now alone, I expected some
explanation from my friend as to the place we were in, and the people
who frequented it. Not so, however. Phil merely detached one of the
cloaks from its peg, and proceeded to invest himself in its folds; he
placed the skull-cap on his head, after which, covering the whole with
a hood, he fastened the garment around his waist with a girdle of rope,
and stood before me the perfect picture of a monk of St. Benedict, as we
see them represented in old pictures--the only irregularity of costume
being, that instead of a rosary, the string from his girdle supported a
corkscrew and a horn spoon of most portentous proportions.
‘Come, my son,’ said he reverently, ‘indue thy garment.’ So saying,
he proceeded to clothe me in a similar manner, after which he took a
patient survey of me for a few seconds. ‘You ‘ll do very well; wear the
hood well forward; and mark me, Jack, I ‘ve but one direction to give
you--never speak a word, not a syllable, so long as you remain in the
house; if spoken to, cross your arms thus upon your breast, and bow
your head in this manner. Try that--perfectly--you have your lesson; now
don’t forget it.’
O’Grady now, with his arms crossed upon his bosom, and his head bent
slightly forward, walked slowly forth, with a solemn gravity well
befitting his costume. Imitating him as well as I was able, I followed
him up the stairs. On reaching the second landing, he tapped twice with
his knuckles at a low door, whose pointed arch and iron grating were
made to represent the postern of a convent.
‘_Benedicite_,’ said Phil, in a low voice.
‘_Et tu quoque, frater_,’ responded some one from within, and the door
was opened.
Saluting a venerable-looking figure, who, with a long grey beard, bowed
devoutly as we passed, we entered an apartment, where, so sudden was the
change from what I had hitherto seen, I could scarcely trust my eyes.
A comfortable, well-carpeted room, with curtained windows, cushioned
chairs, and, not least inviting of all, a blazing fire of wood upon the
hearth, were objects I was little prepared for; but I had little time to
note them, my attention being directed with more curiosity to the living
occupants of this strange dwelling. Some fifteen or sixteen persons,
costumed like ourselves, either walked up and down engaged in
conversation, or sat in little groups around the fire. Card-tables there
were in different parts of the room, but one only was occupied. At this
a party of reverend fathers were busily occupied at whist. In the corner
next the fire, seated in a large chair of carved oak, was a figure,
whose air and bearing bespoke authority; the only difference in his
costume from the others being a large embroidered corkscrew, which he
wore on his left shoulder.
‘Holy Prior, your blessing,’ said Phil, bowing obsequiously before him.
‘You have it, my son: much good may it do you,’ responded the superior,
in a voice which, somehow or other, seemed not perfectly new to me.
While O’Grady engaged in a whispered conversation with the prior,
I turned my eyes towards a large-framed paper which hung above the
chimney. It ran thus:--
‘Rules and regulations to be observed in the monastery of the venerable
and pious brothers, the Monks of the Screw.’
Conceiving it scarcely delicate in a stranger to read over the
regulations of a society of which he was not a member, I was turning
away, when O’Grady, seizing me by the arm, whispered, ‘Remember your
lesson’; then added aloud, ‘Holy Father, this is the lay brother of whom
I spoke.’
The prior bowed formally, and extended his hands towards me with a
gesture of benediction--
‘_Accipe benedictionem_-----’
‘Supper, by the Lord Harry!’ cried a jolly voice behind me, and at the
same moment a general movement was made by the whole party.
The prior now didn’t wait to conclude his oration, but tucking up his
garments, put himself at the head of the procession which had formed,
two and two, in order of march. At the same moment, two fiddles from the
supper-room, after a slight prelude, struck up the anthem of the order,
which was the popular melody of, ‘The Night before Larry was stretched!’
Marching in measured tread, we entered the supper-room, when, once
having made the circuit of the table, at a flourish of the fiddles we
assumed our places, the superior seating himself at the head in a chair
of state, slightly elevated above the rest. A short Latin grace, which
I was unfortunate enough not to catch, being said, the work of eating
began; and, certainly, whatever might have been the feats of the friars
of old, when the bell summoned them to the refectory, their humble
followers, the Monks of the Screw, did them no discredit. A profusion of
dishes covered the table; and although the entire service was of wood,
and the whole ‘equipage’ of the most plain and simple description, yet
the cookery was admirable, and the wines perfection itself.
While the supper proceeded, scarcely a word was spoken. By the skilful
exercise of signs, with which they all seemed familiar, roast ducks,
lobsters, veal-pies, and jellies flew from hand to hand; the decanters
also paraded up and down the table with an alacrity and despatch I had
seldom seen equalled. Still, the pious brethren maintained a taciturn
demeanour that would have done credit to La Trappe itself. As for me, my
astonishment and curiosity increased every moment. What could they be?
What could they mean? There was something too farcical about it all to
suppose that any political society or any dangerous association could
be concealed under such a garb; and if mere conviviality and good
fellowship were meant, their unbroken silence and grave demeanour struck
me as a most singular mode of promoting either.
Supper at length concluded, the dishes were removed by two humble
brethren of the order, dressed in a species of grey serge; after
which, marching to a solemn tune, another monk appeared, bearing a huge
earthenware bowl, brimful of steaming punch--at least so the odour and
the floating lemons bespoke it. Each brother was now provided with
a small, quaint-looking pipkin, after which the domestics withdrew,
leaving us in silence as before. For about a second or two this
continued, when suddenly the fiddles gave a loud twang, and each monk,
springing to his legs, threw hack his cowl, and, bowing to the superior,
reseated himself. So sudden was the action, so unexpected the effect,
for a moment or two I believed it a dream. What was my surprise, what my
amazement, that this den of thieves, this hoard of burglars, this secret
council of rebels, was nothing more or less than an assemblage of nearly
all the first men of the day in Ireland! And as my eye ran rapidly over
the party, here I could see the Chief Baron, with a venerable dignitary
of St. Patrick’s on his right; there was the Attorney-General; there the
Provost of Trinity College; lower down, with his skull-cap set jauntily
on one side, was Wellesley Pole, the secretary of state; Yelverton,
Day, Plunket, Parsons, Toler; in a word, all those whose names were a
guarantee for everything that was brilliant, witty, and amusing, were
there; while, conspicuous among the rest, the prior himself was no other
than John Philpot Curran! Scarcely was my rapid survey of the party
completed, when the superior, filling his pipkin from the ample bowl
before him, rose to give the health of the order. Alas me! that time
should have so sapped my memory! I can but give my impression of what I
heard.
The speech, which lasted about ten minutes, was a kind of burlesque on
speeches from the throne, describing in formal phrase the prosperous
state of their institution, its amicable foreign relations, the
flourishing condition of its finances--brother Yelverton having paid in
the two-and-sixpence he owed for above two years--concluding all with
the hope that by a rigid economy, part of which consisted in limiting
John Toler to ten pipkins, they would soon be enabled to carry into
effect the proposed works on the frontier, and expend the sum of four
shillings and nine-pence in the repair of the lobby. Winding up all with
a glowing eulogium on monastic institutions in general, he concluded
with recommending to their special devotion and unanimous cheers ‘the
Monks of the Screw.’ Never, certainly, did men compensate for their
previous silence better than the worthy brethren in question. Cheering
with an energy I never heard the like of, each man finished his pipkin
with just voice enough left to call for the song of the order.
Motioning with his hand to the fiddlers to begin, the prior cleared his
throat, and, to the same simple but touching melody they had marched in
to supper, sang the following chant:--
GOOD-LUCK TO THE FRIARS OF OLD
‘Of all trades that flourished of old,
Before men knew reading and writing,
The friars’ was best I am told,
If one wasn’t much given to fighting;
For, rent free, you lived at your ease--
You had neither to work nor to labour--
You might eat of whatever you please,
For the prog was supplied by your neighbour.
Oh, good-luck to the friars of old!
‘Your dress was convenient and cheap--
A loose robe like this I am wearing:
It was pleasant to eat in or sleep,
And never much given to tearing.
Not tightened nor squeezed in the least--
How of modern days you might shame us!
With a small bit of cord round your waist--
With what vigour you’d chant the oremus!
Oh, good-luck to the friars of old!
‘What miracles then, too, you made!
The fame to this hour is lasting;
But the strangest of all, it is said,
You grew mighty fat upon fasting!
And though strictly forbid to touch wine,
How the fact all your glory enhances!
You well knew the taste of the vine--
Some miraculous gift of St. Francis!
Oh, good-luck to the friars of old!
‘To trace an example so meek,
And repress all our carnal desires,
We mount two pair stairs every week,
And put on the garment of friars;
And our order itself it is old--
The oldest between me and you, sir;
For King David, they say, was enrolled,
And a capital Monk of the Screw, sir.
So, good-luck to the friars of old!’
The song over, and another cheer given to the brethren of the Screw, the
pipkins were replenished, and the conversation, so long pent up, burst
forth in all its plenitude. Nothing but fun, nothing but wit, nothing
but merriment, was heard on either side. Here were not only all the
bright spirits of the day, but they were met by appointment; they came
prepared for the combat, armed for the fight; and, certainly, never was
such a joust of wit and brilliancy. Good stories rained around; jests,
repartees, and epigrams flew like lightning; and one had but time
to catch some sparkling gem as it glittered, ere another and another
succeeded.
But even already I grow impatient with myself while I speak of these
things. How poor, how vapid, and how meagre is the effort to recall the
wit that set the table in a roar! Not only is memory wanting, but how
can one convey the incessant roll of fun, the hailstorm of pleasantry,
that rattled about our ears; each good thing that was uttered ever
suggesting something still better; the brightest fancy and the most
glowing imagination stimulated to their utmost exercise; while powers
of voice, of look, and of mimicry unequalled, lent all their aid to the
scene.
While I sat entranced and delighted with all I saw and all I heard, I
had not remarked that O’Grady had been addressing the chair for some
time previous.
‘Reverend brother,’ replied the prior, ‘the prayer of thy petition is
inadmissible. The fourth rule of our faith says, _de confessione:_ No
subject, mirthful, witty, or jocose, known to, or by, any member of the
order, shall be withheld from the brotherhood under a penalty of the
heaviest kind. And it goes on to say, that whether the jest involve your
father or your mother, your wife, your sister, or the aunt from whom
you expect a legacy, no exception can be made. What you then look for is
clearly impossible; make a clean breast of it, and begin.’
This being a question of order, a silence was soon established, when,
what was my horror to find that Phil O’Grady began the whole narrative
of my mother’s letter on the subject of the Rooneys! Not limiting
himself, however, to the meagre document in question, but colouring
the story with all the force of his imagination, he displayed to the
brethren the ludicrous extremes of character personated by the London
fine lady and the Dublin attorney’s wife. Shocked as I was at first, he
had not proceeded far, when I was forced to join the laughter. The whole
table pounced upon the story. The Rooneys were well known to them
all; and the idea of poor Paul, who dispensed his hospitalities with
a princely hand, having his mansion degraded to the character of a
chop-house, almost convulsed them with laughter.
‘I am going over to London next week,’ said Parsons, ‘with old Lambert;
and if I thought I should meet this Lady Charlotte Hinton, I’d certainly
contrive to have him presented to her as Mr. Paul Rooney.’
This observation created a diversion in favour of my lady-mother, to
which I had the satisfaction of listening without the power to check.
‘She has,’ said Dawson, ‘most admirable and original views about
Ireland; and were it only for the fact of calling on the Rooneys for
their bill, she deserves our gratitude. I humbly move, therefore, that
we drink to the health of our worthy sister, Lady Charlotte Hinton.’
The next moment found me hip-hipping, in derision, to my mother’s
health, the only consolation being that I was escaping unnoticed and
unknown.
‘Well, Barrington, the duke was delighted with the corps; nothing could
be more soldierlike than their appearance, as they marched past.’
‘Ah, the attorneys’, isn’t it--the Devil’s Own, as Curran calls them?’
‘Yes, and remarkably well they looked. I say, Parsons, you heard what
poor Rooney said when Sir Charles Asgill read aloud the general order
complimenting them: “May I beg, Sir Charles,” said he, “to ask if the
document in your hand be an attested copy?”’
‘Capital, ‘faith! By-the-bye, what’s the reason, can any one tell me,
Paul has never invited me to dine for the last two years?’
‘Indeed!’ said Curran; ‘then your chance is a bad one, for the statute
of limitations is clearly against you.’
‘Ah, Kellar, the Rooneys have cut all their low acquaintances, and your
prospects look very gloomy. You know what took place between Paul and
Lord Manners?’
‘No, Barrington; let’s hear it, by all means!’
‘Paul had met him at Kinnegad, where both had stopped to change horses.
“A glass of sherry, my lord?” quoth Paul, with a most insinuating look.
‘“No, sir, thank you,” was the distant reply.
‘“A bowl of gravy, then, my lord?” rejoined he. ‘“Pray, excuse me,” more
coldly than before.
‘“Maybe a chop and a crisped potato would tempt your lordship?”
‘“Neither, sir, I assure you.”
‘“Nor a glass of egg-flip?” repeated Paul, in an accent bordering on
despair.
‘“Nor even the egg-flip,” rejoined his lordship, in the most pompous
manner.
‘“Then, my lord,” said Paul, drawing himself up to his full height, and
looking him firmly in the face, “I’ve only to say, the ‘onus’ is now on
you.” With which he stalked out of the room, leaving the chancellor to
his own reflections.’
‘Brethren, the saint!’ cried out the prior, as he rose from the chair.
‘The saint! the saint!’ re-echoed from lip to lip; and at the same moment
the door opened, and a monk appeared, bearing a silver image of St.
Patrick, about a foot and a half high, which he deposited in the middle
of the table with the utmost reverence. All the monks rose, filling
their pipkins, while the junior of the order, a fat little monk with
spectacles, began the following ditty, in which all the rest joined,
with every energy of voice and manner:--
I
‘When St. Patrick our order created,
And called us the Monks of the Screw,
Good rules he revealed to our abbot
To guide us in what we should do.
II
‘But first he replenished his fountain
With liquor the best in the sky,
And he swore by the word of his saintship
That fountain should never run dry.
III
‘My children, be chaste, till you ‘re tempted;
While sober, be wise and discreet;
And humble your bodies with fasting
Whene’er you ‘ve nothing to eat.
IV
‘Then be not a glass in the convent,
Except on a festival, found;
And this rule to enforce, I ordain it
A festival all the year round.’
A hip, hip, hurrah! that made the very saint totter on his legs, shook
the room; and once more the reverend fathers reseated themselves to
resume their labours.
Again the conversation flowed cm in its broader channel; and scarcely
was the laughter caused by one anecdote at an end when another
succeeded, the strangest feature of all this being that he who related
the story was, in almost every instance, less the source of amusement
to the party than they who, listening to the recital, threw a hundred
varied lights upon it, making even the tamest imaginable adventure the
origin of innumerable ludicrous situations and absurd fancies. Besides
all this, there were characteristic differences in the powers of
the party, which deprived the display of any trace or appearance of
sameness: the epigrammatic terseness and nicety of Curran; the jovial
good-humour and mellow raciness of Lawrence Parsons; the happy facility
of converting all before him into a pun or a repartee, so eminently
possessed by Toler; and, perhaps more striking than all, the caustic
irony and piercing sarcasm of Plunket’s wit--relieved and displayed one
another, each man’s talent having only so much of rivalry as to excite
opposition and give interest to the combat, yet never by any accident
originating a particle of animosity, or even eliciting a shade of
passing irritation.
With what pleasure could I continue to recount the stories, the songs,
the sayings, I listened to! With what satisfaction do I yet look back
upon that brilliant scene, nearly all the actors in which have since
risen to high rank and eminence in the country! How often, too, in their
bright career, when I have heard the warm praise of the world bestowed
upon their triumphs and their successes, has my memory carried me back
to that glorious night, when with hearts untrammelled by care, high in
hope, and higher in ambition, these bright spirits sported in all the
wanton exuberance of their genius, scattering with profusion the rich
ore of their talent, careless of the depths to which the mine should
be shafted hereafter! Yes, it is true there were giants in those days.
However much one may be disposed to look upon the eulogist of the past,
as one whose fancy is more ardent than his memory is tenacious, yet with
respect to this, there is no denial of the fact, that great convivial
gifts, great conversational power, no longer exist as they did some
thirty or forty years ago. I speak more particularly of the country
where I passed my youth--of Ireland. And who that remembers those names
I have mentioned; who that can recall the fascination, and charm, which
almost every dinner-party of the day could boast; who that can bring to
mind the brilliancy of Curran, the impetuous power of Plunket, or the
elegance of manner and classical perfection of wit that made Burke
the Cicero of his nation; who, I say, with all these things before
his memory, can venture to compare the society of that period with the
present? No, no; the grey hairs that mingle with our brown may convict
us of being a prejudiced witness, but we would call into court every one
whose testimony is available, and confidently await the verdict.
‘And so they ran away!’ said the prior, turning towards a tall,
gaunt-looking monk, who with a hollow voice and solemn manner was
recording the singular disappearance of the militia regiment he
commanded on the morning they were to embark for England. ‘The story
we heard,’ resumed the prior, ‘was, that when drawn up in the Fifteen
Acres, one of the light company caught sight of a hare, and flung his
musket at it; that the grenadiers followed the example, and that then
the whole battalion broke loose, with a loud yell, and set off in
pursuit----’
‘No, sir,’ said the gaunt man, waving his hand to suppress the laughter
around him. ‘They were assembled on the lighthouse wall, as it might
be here, and we told them off by tallies as they marched on board, not
perceiving, however, that as fast as they entered the packet on one side
they left it on the opposite, there being two jolly-boats in waiting to
receive them; and as it was dusk at the time, the scheme was undetected,
until the corporal of a flank company shouted out to them to wait for
him, that being his boat. At this time we had fifty men of our four
hundred and eighty.’
‘Ay, ay, holy father,’ cried the prior, as he helped himself to a
devilled bone, ‘your fellows were like the grilled bone before me--when
they were mustered, they would not wait to be peppered?
This sally produced a roar of laughter, not the less hearty that the
grim-visaged hero it was addressed to never relaxed a muscle of his
face.
It was now late, and what between the noise, the wine, and the laughter,
my faculties were none of the clearest. Without having drunk much, I
felt all the intoxication of liquor, and a whirlwind of confusion in my
ideas, that almost resembled madness. To this state one part of their
proceedings in a great measure contributed; for every now and then, on
some signal from the prior, the whole party would take hands and dance
round the table to the measure of an Irish jig, wilder and even more
eccentric than their own orgies. Indeed, I think this religious exercise
finished me; for after the third time of its performance, the whole
scene became a confused and disturbed mass, and amid the crash of
voices, the ringing of laughter, the tramping of feet, I sank into
something which, if not sleep, was at least unconsciousness; and thus
is a wet sponge drawn over the immediately succeeding portion of my
history.
[Illustration: 224]
Some faint recollection I have of terrifying old Corny by my costume;
but what the circumstances, or how they happened, I cannot remember.
I can only call to mind one act in vindication of my wisdom--I went to
bed.
CHAPTER XVIII. A CONFIDENCE
I slept late on the morning after my introduction to the Monks of the
Screw, and probably should have continued to indulge still longer, had
not O’Grady awoke me.
‘Come, Jack,’ he cried, ‘this is the third time I have been here to-day.
I can’t have mercy on you any longer; so rub your eyes, and try if
you can’t wake sufficiently to listen to me. I have just received my
appointment as captain in the Forty-first, with an order to repair
immediately to Chatham to join the regiment, which is under orders for
foreign service.’
‘And when do you go, Phil?’
‘To-night at eight o’clock. A private note from a friend at the Horse
Guards tells me not to lose a moment; and as I shall have to wait on
the duke to thank him for his great kindness to me, I have no time to
spare.’
This news so stunned me that for a moment or two I couldn’t reply.
O’Grady perceived it, and, patting me gaily on the shoulder, said--
‘Yes, Jack, I am sorry we are to separate. But as for me, no other
course was open; and as to you, with all your independence from fortune,
and with all your family influence to push your promotion, the time is
not very distant when you will begin to feel the life you are leading
vapid and tiresome. You will long for an excitement more vigorous and
more healthy in its character; and then, my boy, my dearest hope is that
we may be thrown once more together.’
Had my friend been able at the moment to have looked into the secret
recesses of my heart and read there my inmost thoughts, he could not
more perfectly have depicted my feelings, nor pictured the impressions
that, at the very moment he spoke, were agitating my mind. The time he
alluded to had indeed arrived. The hour had come when I wished to be a
soldier in more than the mere garb; but with that wish came linked
another even stronger still; and this was, that, before I went on
service, I should once more see Louisa Bellew, explain to her the nature
and extent of my attachment to her, and obtain, if possible, some pledge
on her part that, with the distinction I hoped to acquire, I should look
to the possession of her love as my reward and my recompense. Young as I
was, I felt ashamed at avowing to O’Grady the rapid progress of my
passion. I had not courage to confess upon what slight encouragement I
built my hopes, and at the same time was abashed at being compelled to
listen tamely to his prophecy, when the very thoughts that flashed
across me would have indicated my resolve.
While I thus maintained an awkward silence, he once more resumed--
‘Meanwhile, Jack, you can serve me, and I shall make no apologies
for enlisting you. You’ve heard me speak of this great Loughrea
steeplechase: now, somehow or other, with my usual prudence, I have gone
on adding wager to wager, until at last I find myself with a book of
some eight hundred pounds--to lose which at a moment like this, I need
not say, would almost ruin all my plans. To be free of the transaction,
I this morning offered to pay half forfeit, and they refused me. Yes,
Hinton, they knew every man of them the position I stood in. They saw
that not only my prospects but my honour was engaged; that before a week
I should be far away, without any power to control, without any means to
observe them. They knew well that, thus circumstanced, I must lose; and
that if I lost, I must sell my commission, and leave the army beggared
in character and in fortune.’
‘And now, my dear friend,’ said I, interrupting, ‘how happens it that
you bet with men of this stamp? I understood you it was a friendly
match, got up at a dinnerparty.’
‘Even so, Jack. The dinner was in my own rooms, the claret mine, the men
my _friends_. You may smile, but so the world is pleased to call those
with whom from day to day we associate, with no other bond of union than
the similarity of a pursuit which has nothing more reprehensible in it
than the character of the intimacies it engenders. Yes, Hinton, these
are my sporting friends, sipping my wine while they plot my ruin.
Conviviality with them is not the happy abandonment to good fellowship
and enjoyment, but the season of cold and studied calculation--the hour
when, unexcited themselves, they trade upon the unguarded and unwary
feelings of others. They know how imperative is the code of honour as
regards a bet, and they make a virtue to themselves in the unflinching
firmness of their exaction, as a cruel judge would seek applause for the
stern justice with which he condemns a felon. It is usual, however, to
accept half forfeit in circumstances like these of mine: the condition
did not happen to be inserted, and they rejected my offer.’
‘Is this possible,’ said I, ‘and that these men call themselves your
friends?’
‘Yes, Jack; a betting-book is like Shylock’s bond, and the holder of one
pretty much about as merciful as the worthy Israelite. But come, come!
it is but boyish weakness in one like me to complain of these things;
nor, indeed, would I speak of them now, but with the hope that my words
may prove a warning to you, while they serve to explain the service I
look for from you, and give you some insight into the character of those
with whom you ‘ll have to deal.’
‘Only tell me,’ said I, ‘only explain, my dear O’Grady, what I can do,
and how; it is needless for me to say I ‘m ready.’
‘I thought as much. Now listen to me. When I made this unlucky match
it was, as I have said, over a dinnerparty, when, excited by wine and
carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, I made a proposition
which, with a calmer head, I should never have ventured. For a second or
two it was not accepted, and Mr. Burke, of whom you ‘ve heard me speak,
called out from the end of the table, “A sporting offer, by Jove! and
I’ll ride for you myself.” This I knew was to give me one of the first
horsemen in Ireland; so, while filling my glass and nodding to him,
accepted his offer, I cried out, “Two to one against any horse named
at this moment!” The words were not spoken when I was taken up, at both
sides of the table; and as I leaned across to borrow a pencil from a
friend, I saw that a smile was curling every lip, and that Burke himself
endeavoured with his wine-glass to conceal the expression of his face.
I needed no stronger proof that the whole match had been a preconcerted
scheme between the parties, and that I had fallen into a snare laid
purposely to entrap me. It was too late, however, to retract; I booked
my bets, drank my wine, congeed my friends, went to bed, and woke the
next morning to feel myself a dupe.
‘But come, Jack; at this rate I shall never have done. The match was
booked, the ground chosen, Mr. Burke to be my jockey, and, in fact,
everything arranged, when, what was my surprise, my indignation, to find
that the horse I destined for the race (at the time in possession of
a friend) was bought up for five hundred and sent off to England! This
disclosed to me how completely I was entrapped. Nothing remained for me
then but to purchase one which offered at the moment! and this one,
I ‘ve told you already, has the pleasant reputation of being the most
wicked devil and the hardest to ride in the whole west; in fact, except
Burke himself, nobody would mount him on a road, and as to crossing a
country with him, even _he_, they say, has no fancy for it. In any case,
he made it the ground of a demand which I could not refuse--that, in the
event of my winning, he was to claim a third of the stakes. At length
the horse is put in training, improves every hour, and matters seem to
be taking a favourable turn. In the midst of this, however, the report
reaches me, as you heard yourself yesterday morning, that Burke will
not ride. However I affected to discredit it at the moment, I had great
difficulty to preserve the appearance of calm. This morning settles the
question by this letter:--
‘“Red House, Wednesday Morning.”
‘“Dear Sir,--A friendly hint has just reached me that I am to be
arrested on the morning of the Loughrea race for a trifle of a hundred
and eighteen pounds and some odd shillings. If it suits your convenience
to pay the money, or enter into bail for the amount, I’ll be very happy
to ride your horse; for, although I don’t care for a double ditch, I’ve
no fancy to take the wall of the county jail, even on the back of as
good a horse as Moddiridderoo.--Yours truly, Ulick Burke.”’
‘Well,’ said I, as, after some difficulty, I spelled through this
ill-written and dirty epistle, ‘and what do you mean to do here?’
‘If you ask me,’ said Phil, ‘what I ‘d like to do, I tell you fairly
it would be to horsewhip my friend Mr. Burke as a preliminary, pay the
stakes, withdraw my horse, and cut the whole concern; but my present
position is, unhappily, opposed to each of these steps. In the first
place, a rencontre with Burke would do me infinite disservice at the
Horse Guards, and as to the payment of eight hundred pounds, I don’t
think I could raise the money, unless some one would advance five
hundred of it for a mortgage on Corny Delany. But to be serious,
Jack--and, as time passes, I must be serious--I believe the best way on
this occasion is to give Burke the money (for as to the bill, that’s
an invention); yet as I must start to-night for England, and the affair
will require some management, I must put the whole matter into your
hands, with full instructions how to act.’
‘I am quite ready and willing,’ said I; ‘only give me the _carte du
pay_.’
‘Well, then, my boy, you’ll go down to Loughrea for me the day before
the race, establish yourself as quietly as you can in the hotel, and, as
the riders must be named on the day before the running, contrive to see
Mr. Burke, and inform him that his demand will be complied with. Have
no delicacy with him---it is a mere money question; and although by
the courtesy of the turf he is a gentleman, yet there is no occasion
to treat him with more of ceremony than is due to yourself in your
negotiation. This letter contains the sum he mentions. In addition to
that, I have inclosed a bank cheque for whatever you like to give him;
only remember one thing, Hinton--_he_ must ride, and _I_ must win.’
All the calmness with which O’Grady had hitherto spoken deserted him
at this moment; his face became scarlet, his brow was bent, and his lip
quivered with passion, while, as he walked the room with hurried steps
he muttered between his teeth--
‘Yes, though it cost my last shilling, I’ll win the race! They thought
to ruin me; the scheme was deeply laid and well planned too, but they
shall fail. No, Hinton,’ resumed he in a louder tone--‘no, Hinton;
believe me, poor man that I am, this is not with me a question of so
many pounds: it is the wounded _amour propre_ of a man who, all through
his life, held out the right hand of fellowship to those very men who
now conspire to be his ruin. And such, my dear boy, such, for the most
part, are the dealings of the turf. I do not mean to say that men
of high honour and unblemished integrity are not foremost in the
encouragement of a sport which, from its bold and manly character,
is essentially an English one; but this I would assert, that probity,
truth, and honour are the gifts of but a very small number of those who
make a traffic of the turf, and are, what the world calls, “racing men.”
And oh how very hard the struggle, how nice the difficulty, of him who
makes these men his daily companions, to avoid the many artifices which
the etiquette of the racecourse permits, but which the feelings of a
gentleman would reject as unfair and unworthy! How contaminating that
laxity of principle that admits of every stratagem, every trick, as
legitimate, with the sole proviso that it be successful! And what a
position is it that admits of no alternative save being the dupe or the
blackleg! How hard for the young fellow entering upon life with all the
ardour, all the unsuspecting freshness of youth about him, to stop
short at one without passing on to the other stage! How difficult, with
offended pride and wounded self-love, to find himself the mere tool
of sharpers! How very difficult to check the indignant spirit, that
whispers retaliation by the very arts by which he has been cheated! Is
not such a trial as this too much for any boy of twenty? and is it
not to be feared that, in the estimation he sees those held in whose
blackguardism is their pre-eminence, a perverted ambition to be what is
called a sharp fellow may sap and undermine every honourable feeling
of the heart, break down the barriers of rigid truth and scrupulous
fidelity, teaching him to exult at what formerly he had blushed, and to
recognise no folly so contemptible as that of him who believes the word
of another? Such a career as this has many a one pursued, abandoning
bit by bit every grace, every virtue, and every charm of his character,
that, at the end, he should come forth a “sporting gentleman.”’
He paused for a few seconds, and then, turning towards me, added, in a
voice tremulous from emotion, ‘And yet, my boy, to men like this I would
now expose you! No, no, Jack; I’ ll not do it. I care not what turn the
thing may take; I ‘ll not embitter my life with this reflection.’ He
seized the letter, and crushing it in his hand, walked towards the
window.
‘Come, come, O’Grady,’ said I, ‘this is not fair; you first draw a
strong picture of these men, and then you deem me weak enough to fall
into their snares. That would hardly say much for my judgment and good
sense; besides, you have stimulated my curiosity, and I shall be sadly
disappointed if I’m not to see them.’
‘Be it so, Jack!’ said he with a sigh. ‘I shall give you a couple
of letters to some friends of mine down there; and I know but one
recompense you’ll have for all the trouble and annoyance of this
business--your pretty friend, Miss Bellew, is on a visit in the
neighbourhood, and is certain to be at the race.’
Had O’Grady looked at me while he spoke he would have seen how deeply
this intelligence affected me, while I myself could with difficulty
restrain the increased interest I now felt in all about the matter,
questioning him on every particular, inquiring into a hundred minute
points, and, in fact, displaying an ardour on the subject that nothing
short of my friend’s preoccupation could have failed in detecting the
source of. My mind now fixed on one object, I could scarcely follow him
in his directions as to travelling down, secrecy, etc.
I heard something about the canal-boat, and some confused impression was
on my mind about a cross-road and a jaunting-car; but the prospect of
meeting Louisa, the hope of again being in her society, rendered me
indifferent to all else; and as I thrust the letters he gave me into my
coat-pocket, and promised an implicit observance of all his directions,
I should have been sorely puzzled had he asked me to repeat them.
‘Now,’ continued O’Grady, at the end of about half-an-hour’s rapid
speaking, ‘I believe I’ve put you in possession of all the bearings
of this case. You understand, I hope, the kind of men you have to deal
with, and I trust Mr. Ulick Burke is thoroughly known to you by this
time?’
‘Oh, perfectly,’ said I, half mechanically.
‘Well, then, my boy, I believe I had better say good-bye. Something
tells me we shall meet ere long; meanwhile, Jack, you have my best
wishes.’ He paused for a moment and turned away his head, evidently
affected, then added, ‘You’ll write to me soon, of course; and as that
old fool Corny follows me in a week----’
‘And is Corny going abroad?’
‘Ay, confound him! like the old man in Sindbad, there ‘s no getting
him off one’s shoulders. Besides, he has a kind of superstition that he
ought to close the eyes of the last of the family; and as he has frankly
confessed to me this morning he knows I am in that predicament, he
esteems it a point of duty to accompany me. Poor fellow, with all his
faults, I can’t help feeling attached to him; and were I to leave him
behind me, what would become of him? No, Jack, I am fully sensible of
all the inconvenience, all the ridicule of this step, but, ‘faith, I
prefer both to the embittering reflection I should have did I desert
him.’
‘Why does he remain after you, Phil? He ‘ll never find his way to
London.’
‘Oh, trust him! What with scolding, cursing, and abusing every one he
meets, he’ll attract notice enough on the road never to be forgotten, or
left behind. But the fact is, it is his own proposition; and Corny
has asked for a few days’ leave of absence, for the first time for
seven-and-twenty years!’
‘And what the deuce can that be for?’
‘You ‘d never guess if you tried until to-morrow--to see his mother.’
‘Corny’s mother! Corny Delany’s mother!’
‘Just so--his mother. Ah, Hinton! you still have much to learn about us
all here. And now, before we part, let me instruct you on this point;
not that I pretend to have a reason for it, nor do I know that there
is any, but somehow I’ll venture to say that whenever you meet with a
little cross-grained, ill-conditioned, ill-thriven old fellow, with a
face as if carved in the knot of a crab-tree, the odds are about fifteen
to one that the little wretch has a mother alive. Whether it is that the
tenacity of life among such people is greater, or whether Nature has
any peculiar objects of her own in view in the matter, I can’t say, but
trust me for the fact. And now, I believe, I have run myself close to
time; so once more, Jack, good-bye, and God bless you!’
He hurried from the room as he spoke, but, as the door was closing, I
saw that his lip trembled and his cheek was pale; while I leaned against
the window-shutter and looked after him with a heavy and oppressed
heart, for he was my first friend in the world.
CHAPTER XIX. THE CANAL-BOAT
In obedience to O’Grady’s directions, of which, fortunately for me,
he left a memorandum in writing, I started from Portobello in the
canal-boat on the afternoon of the day after his departure. The day
was dark and lowering, with occasional showers of cold and sleety rain.
However, the casual glance I took of the gloomy cell, denominated cabin,
deterred me from seeking shelter there, and buttoned up in my greatcoat
and with my travelling-cap drawn firmly over my eyes, I walked the deck
for several hours, my own thoughts affording me sufficient occupation;
and even had the opportunity presented itself, I should not have desired
any other. On this score, however, there was no temptation; and as I
looked at my fellow-passengers, there was nothing either in their voice,
air, or appearance to induce me to care for any closer intimacy.
The majority of them were stout, plain-looking countryfolk, with coats
of brown or grey frieze, leather gaiters, and thick shoes, returning, as
I could guess from some chance expressions they dropped, from the Dublin
market, whither they had proceeded with certain droves of bullocks,
wethers, and hoggets, the qualities of which formed the staple of
conversation. There were also some lady passengers--one a rather
good-looking woman, with a certain air of half gentility about her,
which enabled her at times to display to her companion her profound
contempt for the rest of the company. This companion was a poor
subdued-looking girl of about eighteen or twenty years, who scarcely
ventured to raise her haggard eyes, and spoke with an accent painful
from agitation; her depressed look and her humble manner did not
conceal, however, a certain air of composed and quiet dignity, which
spoke of happier days. A host of ill-bred, noisy, and unmannerly
children accompanied them; and I soon discovered that the mother was
the wife of the great shopkeeper in Loughrea, and her pale companion
a governess she had just procured in Dublin, to initiate the promising
offspring in the accomplished acquirements of French, Italian,
music, and painting. Their only acquaintance on board seemed to be a
jolly-looking man who, although intimate with every one, seemed somehow
not to suffer in the grand lady’s esteem from the familiarities he
dispensed on all sides. He was a short, florid-looking little fellow,
with a round bullet head, the features of which seemed at first sight
so incongruous that it was difficult to decide on their prevailing
expression; his large grey eyes, which rolled and twinkled with fun,
caught a character of severity from his heavy overhanging eyebrows, and
there was a stern determination in his compressed lips that every moment
gave way to some burst of jocular good-humour, as he accosted one or
other of his friends. His voice, however, was the most remarkable thing
about him; for while at one moment he would declaim in the full round
tone of a person accustomed to speak in public, in the next he would
drop down into an easy and familiar accent, to which the mellowness of
his brogue imparted a raciness quite peculiar. His dress was a suit of
rusty black, with leather breeches of the same colour, and high boots.
This costume, which pronounced him a priest, might also, had I known
more of the country, have explained the secrets of that universal
understanding he maintained with all on board. He knew every one’s
business, whither they were going, where they had been, what success had
attended them in the market, how much the black heifer brought, what the
pigs were sold for; he asked why Tim didn’t come to his duties, and
if Molly’s child was well of the measles; he had a word too for the
shopkeeper’s wife, but that was said in a whisper; and then producing a
copper snuff-box, about the size of a saucer, he presented it to me with
a graceful bow, saying--
‘This is not the first time I have had the honour of being your
fellow-traveller, Captain. We came over from Liverpool together.’
I now remembered that this was the same priest whose controversial
powers had kept me awake for nearly half the night, and whose convivial
ones filled up the remainder. I was delighted, however, to renew my
acquaintance, and we soon cemented an intimacy, which ended in his
proposing that we should sit together at dinner, to which I at once
assented.
‘Dacent people, dacent people, Captain; but _bastes_, after all, in the
ways of the world--none of the _usage de société_, as we used to say
at St. Omer’s. No, no; _feræ naturæ_, devil a more. But here comes the
dinner; the ould story--leg of mutton and turnips, boiled chickens and
ham, a cod and potatoes! By the Mass, they would boil one’s father if
they had him on board,’ while he added in a whisper--‘by rason they
can’t roast! So now, will you move down, if you please?’
‘After your reverence, if you’ll permit. _Arma cedant togæ_.’
‘Thrue for you, my son, _sacerdotes priores_; and though I am only a
priest----’
‘More’s the pity,’ said I, interrupting.
‘You’re right,’ said he, with a slight pinch of my arm, ‘whether you are
joking or not.’
The dinner was not a very appetising one, nor indeed the company over
seductive, so that I disappeared with the cloth, glad to find
myself once more in the open air, with the deck to myself; for my
fellow-travellers had, one and all, begun a very vigorous attack upon
sundry jugs of hot water and crucibles full of whisky, the fumes of
which, added to the heat, the smoke, and other disagreeables, made me
right happy to escape.
As the evening wore late, the noise and uproar grew louder and more
vociferous, and, had not frequent bursts of laughter proclaimed the
spirit of the conviviality, I should have been tempted to believe the
party were engaged in deadly strife. Sometimes a single narrator would
seem to hold the company in attentive silence; then a general chorus of
the whole would break in, with shouts of merriment, knocking of knuckles
on the table, stamping of feet, and other signs of approbation and
applause. As this had now continued for some time, and it was already
verging towards midnight, I began to grow impatient; for as sleep stole
over my eyelids, I was desirous of some little quiet, to indulge myself
in a nap. Blessings on my innocent delusion! the gentlemen below-stairs
had as much notion of swimming as sleeping. Of this a rapid glance
through a little window, at the extremity of the cabin, soon satisfied
me. As well as the steamed and heated glass would permit my seeing, the
scene was a strange one.
About forty persons were seated around a narrow table, so closely packed
that any attitude but the bolt upright was impracticable. There
they were, of every age and sex; some asleep with Welsh wigs and red
pocket-handkerchiefs screening their heads from cold, and their ears
as well as might be from uproar; some were endeavouring to read by the
light of mutton candles, with wicks like a light infantry feather, with
a nob at the head; others, with their heads bent down together, were
confidentially exchanging the secrets of the last market; while here and
there were scattered about little convivial knots of jolly souls, whose
noisy fun and loud laughter indicated but slight respect for their
drowsy neighbours.
The group, however, which attracted most of my attention was one near
the fire at the end. This consisted of his reverence Father Tom, a
stout, burly-looking old farmer opposite him, the austere lady from
Loughrea, and a little dried-up, potted-herring of a man, who, with a
light-brown coat and standing collar, sat up perpendicularly on his seat
and looked about him with an eye as lively and an accent as sharp as
though it were only noonday. This little personage, who came from
that Irish Pennsylvania called Moate, was endeavouring to maintain a
controversy with the worthy priest, who, in addition to his polemics,
was deep in a game of spoiled five with the farmer, and carrying
on besides another species of warfare with his fair neighbour. The
diversity of all these occupations might possibly have been overmuch for
him, were it not for the aid of a suspicious-looking little kettle that
sat hissing and rocking on the hob, with a look of pert satisfaction
that convinced me its contents were something stronger than water.
Perceiving a small space yet unoccupied in the party, I made my way
thither by the stair near it, and soon had the satisfaction to find
myself safely installed, without attracting any other notice from the
party than a proud stare from the lady, as she removed a little farther
from beside the priest.
As to his reverence, far too deeply interested in his immediate pursuits
to pay any attention to me, he had quite enough on his hands with his
three antagonists, none of whom did he ever for a moment permit to
edge in even a word. Conducting his varied warfare with the skill of a
general, who made the artillery, the infantry, and the cavalry of mutual
aid and assistance to one another, he continued to keep the church,
the courtship, and the cards all moving together, in a manner perfectly
miraculous--the vehemence with which he thumped down a trump upon the
table serving as a point in his argument, while the energy of the action
permitted a squeeze of the lady’s hand with the other.
‘There ye go, six of spades! Play a spade, av ye have one, Mr.
Larkins---- For a set of shrivelled-up craytures, with nothing but thee
and thou for a creed to deny the real ould ancient faith, that Saint
Peter and---- The ace of diamonds! _that_ tickled you under the short
ribs----- Not you, Mrs. Carney; for a sore time you have of it, and an
angel of a woman ye are; and the husband that could be cruel to you, and
take---- The odd trick out of you, Mr. Larkins----
No, no, I deny it--_nego in omnibus, Domine_. What does Origen say? The
rock, says he, is Peter; and if you translate the passage without----
Another kettleful, if you please. I go for the ten, Misther Larkins.
Trumps! another--another--hurroo! By the tower of Clonmacnoise, I’ll
beggar the bank to-night. _Malhereux au jeux, heureux en amour_, as we
used to say formerly. God forgive us!’
Whether it was the French, or the look that accompanied it, I cannot
aver, but certainly the lady blushed and looked down. In vain did the
poor Quaker essay a word of explanation. In vain did Mrs. Carney herself
try to escape from the awkward inferences some of his allusions seemed
to lead to. Even the old farmer saw his tricks confiscated, and his
games estreated, without a chance of recovery; for, like Coeur de Lion
with his iron mace, the good priest laid about him, smashing, slaying,
and upsetting all before him, and never giving his adversaries a moment
to recover from one blow, ere he dealt another at their heads.
‘To be sure, Mrs. Carney, and why not? It’s as mild as mother’s milk.
Come, ould square-toes, take a thimbleful of it, and maybe it’ll lead
you to a better understanding. I play the five fingers, Mr. Larkins.
There goes Jack, my jewel! Play to that--the trick is mine. Don’t be
laughing; I’ve a bit of fat in the heel of my fist for you yet. There
now, what are you looking at? Don’t you see the cards? Troth, you ‘re
as bad as the Quaker; you won’t believe your own eyes---- And ye see,
ma’am’--here he whispered something in the lady’s ear for a few seconds,
adding as he concluded--‘and thim, Mrs. Carney, thim’s the rights of
the Church. Friends, indeed! ye call yourselves friends! Faix, ye’re the
least social friends I ever forgathered with, even if the bare look
of you wasn’t an antidote to all kinds of amusements---- Cut, Mr.
Larkins---- And it’s purgatory ye don’t like? Ye know what Father
O’Leary said, “Some of ye may go farther and fare worse,” not to speak
of what a place heaven would be, with the likes of you in it---- Av it
was Mrs. Carney, indeed. Yes, Mary, your own beautiful self, that’s
fit to be an angel any day, and discoorse with angels---- Howld, av
you please, I’ve a club for that---- Don’t you see what nonsense you’re
talking--the little kettle is laughing at you---- What’s that you ‘re
mumbling about my time of life? Show me the man that’ll carry twelve
tumblers with me; show me the man that’ll cross a country; show me the
man that ‘ll---- Never mind, Mrs. Carney---- Time of life, indeed! Faix,
I’ll give you a song.’
With these words, the priest pushed the cards aside, replenished the
glasses, and began the following melody to an air much resembling ‘Sir
Roger de Coverley’:--
‘To-morrow I ‘ll just be three-score;
May never worse fortune betide me
Than to have a hot tumbler before,
And a beautiful crayture beside me!
If this world ‘s a stage, as they say,
And that men are the actors, I ‘m certain,
In the after-piece I ‘d like to play,
And be there at the fall of the curtain.
Whack! fol lol.
‘No, no, Mrs. Carney, I’ll take the vestment on it, nothing of the
kind--the allusion is most discreet; but there is more.
‘For the pleasures of youth are a flam;
To try them again, pray excuse me;
I ‘d rather be priest that I am,
With the rights of the Church to amuse me.
Sure, there’s naught like a jolly old age,
And the patriarchs knew this, it said is;
For though they looked sober and sage,
‘Faith, they had their own fun with the ladies!
Whack! fol lol.
‘Come now, Captain, you are a man that knows his humanities; ‘I be
judged by you.’
‘I protest,’ said I laughingly, ‘I’d rather pronounce on your punch than
your polemics.’
‘No, would you though?’ said the priest, with a joyous twinkle in his
eye, that showed which controversy had more attraction for him. ‘Faix,
then, you shall have a fair trial. Beach me that glass, Mr. Larkins; and
if it isn’t sweet enough, maybe Mrs. Carney would stir it for you with
her finger. There, now, we’ll be comfortable and social, and have no
more bother about creeds, nor councils; for although it is only child’s
play for me to demolish a hundred like you, I’d rather be merciful, and
leave you, like Alexander the coppersmith, to get the reward of your
works.’
Whether it was the polite attention bestowed upon me by his reverence,
or that the magical word ‘Captain,’ so generic for all things military
in Ireland, had its effect, or that any purely personal reasons were
the cause, I cannot aver; but, certainly, Mrs. Carney’s manner became
wonderfully softened. She smiled at me slyly when the priest wasn’t
looking, and vouchsafed an inquiry as to whether I had ever served in
the Roscommon yeomanry.
The kettle once more sent forth its fragrant steam, the glasses were
filled, the vanquished Quaker had extinguished both himself and his
argument beneath his broad beaver; and Father Tom, with a glance
of pleasure at the party, pronounced our arrangements perfect, and
suggested a round game, by way of passing the time.
‘We are now,’ said he, ‘on the long level for eighteen miles; there’s
neither a lock nor a town to disturb us. Give Mrs. Carney the cards.’
The proposition was met with hearty approval; and thus did I, Lieutenant
Hinton, of the Grenadier Guards, extra aide-de-camp to the viceroy,
discover myself at four in the morning engaged at a game of loo, whose
pecuniary limits were fourpence, but whose boundaries as to joke and
broad humour were wide as the great Atlantic. Day broke, and I found
myself richer by some tumblers of the very strongest whisky punch, a
confounded headache, and two-and-eightpence in bad copper jingling in my
pocket.
CHAPTER XX. SHANNON HARBOUR
Little does he know who voyages in a canal-boat, dragged along some
three miles and a half per hour, ignominiously at the tails of two
ambling hackneys, what pride, pomp, and circumstance await him at the
first town he enters. Seated on the deck, watching with a Dutchman’s
apathy the sedgy banks, whose tall naggers bow their heads beneath the
ripple that eddies from the bow--now lifting his eyes from earth to sky,
with nothing to interest, nothing to attract him, turning from the
gaze of the long dreary tract of bog and moorland, to look upon his
fellow-travellers, whose features are perhaps neither more striking
nor more pleasing--the monotonous jog of the postillion before, the
impassive placidity of the helmsman behind; the lazy smoke that seems to
lack energy to issue from the little chimney; the brown and leaden
look of all around--have something dreamy and sleep-compelling, almost
impossible to resist. And, already, as the voyager droops his head, and
lets fall his eyelids, a confused and misty sense of some everlasting
journey, toilsome, tedious, and slow, creeps over his besotted
faculties; when suddenly the loud bray of the horn breaks upon his
ears--the sound is re-echoed from a distance--the far-off tinkle of a
bell is borne along the water, and he sees before him, as if conjured
up by some magician’s wand, the roofs and chimneys of a little village.
Meanwhile the excitement about him increases: the deck is lumbered with
hampers and boxes, and parcels--the note of departure to many a cloaked
and frieze-coated passenger has rung; for, strange as it may seem,
in that little assemblage of mud hovels, with their dunghills and
duck-pools around them, with its one-slated house and its square chapel,
there are people who live there; and, stranger still, some of those who
have left it, and seen other places, are going back there again, to drag
on life as before. But the plot is thickening: the large brass bell at
the stern of the boat is thundering away with its clanging sound; the
banks are crowded with people; and as if to favour the melodramatic
magic of the scene, the track-rope is cast off, the weary posters
trot away towards their stable, and the stately barge floats on to its
destined haven without the aid of any visible influence. He who watches
the look of proud, important bearing that beams upon ‘the captain’s’
face at a moment like this, may philosophise upon the charms of that
power which man wields above his fellow-men. Such, at least, were some
of my reflections; and I could not help muttering to myself, if a man
like this feel pride of station, what a glorious service must be the
navy!
Watching with interest _the_ nautical skill with which, having fastened
a rope to the stern, the boat was swung round, with her head in the
direction from whence she came, intimating thereby the monotonous
character of her avocations, I did not perceive that one by one the
passengers were taking their departure.
‘Good-bye, Captain,’ cried Father Tom, as he extended his ample hand to
me; ‘we’ll meet again in Loughrea. I’m going on Mrs. Carney’s car, or
I’d be delighted to join you in a conveyance; but you’ll easily get one
at the hotel.’
I had barely time to thank the good father for his kind advice, when
I perceived him adjusting various duodecimo Carneys in the well of the
car, and then having carefully included himself in the frieze coat that
wrapped Mrs. Carney, he gave the word to drive on.
As the day following was the time appointed for naming the horses and
the riders, I had no reason for haste. Loughrea, from what I had heard,
was a commonplace country town, in which, as in all similar places
every new-comer was canvassed with a prying and searching curiosity. I
resolved, therefore, to stop where I was; not, indeed, that the scenery
possessed any attractions. A prospect more bleak, more desolate, and
more barren, it would be impossible to’ conceive--a wide river with low
and reedy banks, moving sluggishly on its yellow current, between broad
tracts of bog or callow meadow-land; no trace of cultivation, not even a
tree was to be seen.
Such is Shannon Harbour. No matter, thought I, the hotel at least looks
well. This consolatory reflection of mine was elicited by the prospect
of a large stone building of some storeys high, whose granite portico
and wide steps stood in strange contrast to the miserable mud hovels
that flanked it on either side. It was a strange thought to have placed
such a building in such a situation. I dismissed the ungrateful notion,
as I remembered my own position, and how happy I felt to accept its
hospitality.
A solitary jaunting-car stood on the canal side--the poorest specimen
of its class I had ever seen. The car--a few boards cobbled up by some
country carpenter--seemed to threaten disunion even with the coughing of
the wretched beast that wheezed between its shafts; while the driver, an
emaciated creature of any age from sixteen to sixty, sat shivering upon
the seat, striking from time to time with his whip at the flies that
played about the animal’s ears, as though anticipating their prey.
‘Banagher, yer honour? Loughrea, sir? Bowl ye over in an hour and a
half. Is it Portumna, sir?’
‘No, my good friend,’ replied I, ‘I stop at the hotel.’
Had I proposed to take a sail down the Shannon on my portmanteau, I
don’t think the astonishment could have been greater. The bystanders,
and they were numerous enough by this time, looked from one to the other
with expressions of mingled surprise and dread; and indeed had I, like
some sturdy knight-errant of old, announced my determination to pass
the night in a haunted chamber, more unequivocal evidences of their
admiration and fear could not have been evoked.
‘In the hotel!’ said one.
‘He is going to stop at the hotel!’ cried another.
‘Blessed hour!’ said a third, ‘wonders will never cease!’
Short as had been my residence in Ireland, it had at least taught me one
lesson--never to be surprised at anything I met with. So many views
of life peculiar to the land met me at every turn, so many strange
prejudices, so many singular notions, that were I to apply my previous
knowledge of the world, such as it was, to my guidance here, I should
be like a man endeavouring to sound the depths of the sea with an
instrument intended to ascertain the distance of a star. Leaving,
therefore, to time the explanation of the mysterious astonishment around
me, I gathered together my baggage, and left the boat.
The first impressions of a traveller are not uncommonly his best. The
finer and more distinctive features of a land require deep study and
long acquaintance, but the broader traits of nationality are caught in
an instant, or not caught at all Familiarity destroys them, and it is
only at first blush that we learn to appreciate them with force. Who
that has landed at Calais, at Rotterdam, or at Leghorn, has not felt
this? The Flemish peasant, with her long-eared cap and heavy sabots--the
dark Italian, basking his swarthy features in the sun, are striking
objects when we first look on them; but days and weeks roll on, the
wider characteristics of human nature swallow up the smaller and more
narrow features of nationality, and in a short time we forget that the
things which have surprised us at first are not what we have been used
to from our infancy.
Gifted with but slender powers of observation, such as they were, this
was to me always a moment of their exercise. How often in the rural
districts of my own country had the air of cheery comfort and healthy
contentment spoken to my heart; how frequently, in the manufacturing
ones, had the din of hammers, the black smoke, or the lurid flame of
furnaces, turned my thoughts to those great sources of our national
wealth, and made me look on every dark and swarthy face that passed as
on one who ministered to his country’s weal! But now I was to view a
new and very different scene. Scarcely had I put foot on shore when
the whole population of the village thronged around me. What are these,
thought I? What art do they practise? what trade do they profess? Alas!
their wan looks, their tattered garments, their outstretched hands, and
imploring voices, gave the answer--they were all beggars! It was not as
if the old, the decrepit, the sickly, or the feeble, had fallen on
the charity of their fellow-men in their hour of need; but here were
all--all--the old man and the infant, the husband and the wife, the aged
grandfather and the tottering grandchild, the white locks of youth,
the whiter hairs of age--pale, pallid, and sickly--trembling between
starvation and suspense, watching with the hectic eye of fever every
gesture of him on whom their momentary hope was fixed; canvassing, in
muttered tones, every step of his proceeding, and hazarding a doubt upon
its bearing oh their own fate.
‘Oh, the heavens be your bed, noble gentleman! look at me! The Lord
reward you for the little sixpence that you have in your fingers there!
I ‘m the mother of ten of them.’
‘Billy Cronin, yer honour; I’m dark since I was nine years old.’
‘I’m the ouldest man in the town-land,’ said an old fellow with a white
beard, and a blanket strapped round him.
[Illustration: 2-0248]
While bursting through the crowd came a strange, odd-looking figure,
in a huntsman’s coat and cap, but both so patched and tattered, it was
difficult to detect their colour. ‘Here’s Joe, your honour,’ cried he,
putting his hand to his mouth at the same moment. ‘Tally-ho! ye ho! ye
yo!’ he shouted, with a mellow cadence I never heard surpassed. ‘Yow!
yow! yow!’ he cried, imitating the barking of dogs, and then uttering
a long, low wail, like the bay of a hound, he shouted out, ‘Hark away
t hark away!’ and at the same moment pranced into the thickest of the
crowd, upsetting men, women, and children as he went--the curses of
some, the cries of others, and the laughter of nearly all ringing
through the motley mass, making their misery look still more frightful.
[Illustration: 252]
Throwing what silver I had about me amongst them, I made my way towards
the hotel--not alone, however, but heading a procession of my ragged
friends, who, with loud praises of my liberality, testified their
gratitude by bearing me company. Arrived at the porch, I took my luggage
from the carrier, and entered the house. Unlike any other hotel I had
ever seen, there was neither stir nor bustle, no burly landlord, no
buxom landlady, no dapper waiter with napkin on his arm, no pert-looking
chambermaid with a bedroom candlestick. A large hall, dirty and
unfurnished, led into a kind of bar, upon whose unpainted shelves a few
straggling bottles were ranged together, with some pewter measures and
tobacco-pipes; while the walls were covered with placards, setting forth
the regulations for the Grand Canal Hotel, with a list, copious and
abundant, of all the good things to be found therein, with the prices
annexed; and a pressing entreaty to the traveller, should he not feel
satisfied with his reception, to mention it in a ‘book kept for that
purpose by the landlord.’ I cast my eye along the bill of fare so
ostentatiously put forth--I read of rump-steaks and roast-fowls, of
red rounds and sirloins, and I turned from the spot resolved to explore
farther. The room opposite was large and spacious, and probably destined
for the coffee-room, but it also was empty; it had neither chair nor
table, and save a pictorial representation of a canal-boat, drawn
by some native artist with a burnt stick upon the wall, it had no
decoration. Having amused myself with the _Lady Caher_--such was the
vessel called--I again set forth on my voyage of discovery, and bent
my steps towards the kitchen. Alas! my success was no better there. The
goodly grate, before which should have stood some of that luscious fare
of which I had been reading, was cold and deserted; in one corner, it
was true, three sods of earth, scarce lighted, supported an antiquated
kettle, whose twisted spout was turned up with a misanthropic curl at
the misery of its existence. I ascended the stairs, my footsteps echoed
along the silent corridor, but still no trace of human habitant could I
see, and I began to believe that even the landlord had departed with the
larder.
At this moment the low murmur of voices caught my ear. I listened, and
could distinctly catch the sound of persons talking together at the
end of the corridor. Following along this, I came to a door, at which,
having knocked twice with my knuckles, I waited for the invitation to
enter. Either indisposed to admit me, or not having heard my summons,
they did not reply; so turning the handle gently, I opened the door, and
entered the room unobserved. For some minutes I profited but little by
this step; the apartment, a small one, was literally full of smoke, and
it was only when I had wiped the tears from my eyes three times that I
at length began to recognise the objects before me.
Seated upon two low stools, beside a miserable fire of green wood, that
smoked, not blazed, upon the hearth, were a man and a woman. Between
them a small and rickety table supported a tea equipage of the humblest
description, and a plate of fish whose odour pronounced them red
herrings. Of the man I could see but little, as his back was turned
toward me; but had it been otherwise, I could scarcely have withdrawn my
looks from the figure of his companion. Never had my eyes fallen on
an object so strange and so unearthly. She was an old woman, so old,
indeed, as to have numbered nearly a hundred years; her head, uncovered
by cap, or quoif, displayed a mass of white hair that hung down her
back and shoulders, and even partly across her face, not sufficiently,
however, to conceal two dark orbits, within which her dimmed eyes
faintly glimmered; her nose was thin and pointed, and projecting to the
very mouth, which, drawn backwards at the angles by the tense muscles,
wore an expression of hideous laughter. Over her coarse dress of some
country stuff she wore, for warmth, the cast-off coat of a soldier,
giving to her uncouth figure the semblance of an aged baboon at a
village-show. Her voice, broken with coughing, was a low, feeble treble,
that seemed to issue from passages where lingering life had left scarce
a trace of vitality; and yet she talked on, without ceasing, and moved
her skinny fingers among the tea-cups and knives upon the table, with a
fidgety restlessness, as though in search of something.
[Illustration: 252]
‘There, acushla, don’t smoke; don’t now! Sure it is the ruin of your
complexion. I never see boys take to tobacco this way when I was young.’
‘Whisht, mother, and don’t be bothering me,’ was the cranky reply, given
in a voice which, strange to say, was not quite unknown to me.
‘Ay, ay,’ said the old crone; ‘always the same, never mindin’ a word I
say; and maybe in a few years I won’t be to the fore to look after you
and watch you.’
Here the painful thought of leaving a world, so full of its seductions
and sweets, seemed too much for her feelings, and she began to cry. Her
companion, however, appeared but little affected, but puffed away his
pipe at his ease, waiting with patience till the paroxysm was past.
‘There, now,’ said the old lady, brightening up, ‘take away the
tay-things, and you may go and take a run on the common; but mind you
don’t be pelting Jack Moore’s goose; and take care of Bryan’s sow, she
is as wicked as the devil now that she has boneens after her. D’ye hear
me, darlin’, or is it sick you are? Och, wirra! wirra! What’s the matter
with you, Corny _mabouchal?_’
‘Corny!’ exclaimed I, forgetful of my incognito.
‘Ay, Corny, nayther more nor less than Corny himself,’ said that
redoubted personage, as, rising to his legs, he deposited his pipe upon
the table, thrust his hands into his pockets, and seemed prepared to
give battle.
‘Oh, Corney,’ said I, ‘I am delighted to find you here. Perhaps you can
assist me. I thought this was an hotel.’
‘And why wouldn’t you think it an hotel? hasn’t it a bar and a
coffee-room? Isn’t the regulations of the house printed, and stuck up
on all the walls? Ay, that’s what the directors did--put the price on
everything, as if one was going to cheat the people. And signs on it,
look at the place now! Ugh! the Haythins! the Turks!’
‘Yes, indeed, Corny, look at the place now,’ glad to have an opportunity
to chime in with my friend’s opinions.
‘Well, and look at it,’ replied he, bristling up; ‘and what have you to
say agin it? Isn’t it the Grand Canal Hotel?’
‘Yes; but,’ said I conciliatingly, ‘an hotel ought at least to have a
landlord, or a landlady.’
‘And what do you call my mother there?’ said he, with indignant energy.
‘Don’t bate Corny, sir! don’t strike the child!’ screamed the old woman,
in an accent of heart-rending terror. ‘Sure he doesn’t know what he is
saying.’
‘He is telling me it isn’t the Grand Canal Hotel, mother,’ shouted Corny
in the old lady’s ears, while at the same moment he burst into a fit
of the most discordant laughter. By some strange sympathy the old woman
joined in, and I myself, unable to resist the ludicrous effect of a
scene which still had touched my feelings, gave way also, and thus we
all three laughed on for several minutes.
Suddenly recovering himself in the midst of his cachin-nations, Corny
turned briskly round, fixed his fiery eyes upon me, and said--
‘And did you come all the way from town to laugh at my mother and me?’
I hastened to exonerate myself from such a charge, and in a few words
informed him of the object of my journey, whither I was going, and under
what painful delusion I laboured, in supposing the internal arrangements
of the Grand Canal Hotel bore any relation to its imposing exterior.
‘I thought I could have dined here?’
‘No, you can’t,’ was the reply, ‘av ye’re not fond of herrins.’
‘And had a bed too?’
‘Nor that either, av ye don’t like straw.’
‘And has your mother nothing better than that?’ said I, pointing to the
miserable plate of fish.
‘Whisht, I tell you, and don’t be putting the like in her head:
sometimes she hears as well as you or me.’ Here he dropped his voice
to a whisper. ‘Herrins is so cheap that we always make her believe it’s
Lent--this is nine years now she’s fasting.’ Here a fit of laughing at
the success of this innocent ruse again broke from Corny, in which, as
before, his mother joined.
‘Then what am I to do,’ asked I, ‘if I can get nothing to eat here? Is
there no other house in the village?’
‘No, devil a one.’
‘How far is it to Loughrea?’
‘Fourteen miles and a bit.’
‘I can get a car, I suppose?’
‘Ay, if Mary Doolan’s boy is not gone back.’
The old woman, whose eyes were impatiently fixed upon me during this
colloquy, but who heard not a word of what was going forward, now broke
in--
‘Why doesn’t he pay the bill and go away? Devil a farthing I’ll take off
it. Sure, av ye were a raal gentleman ye’d be givin’ a fippenny-bit to
the gossoon there, that sarved you. Never mind, Corny dear, I’ll buy a
bag of marbles for you at Banagher.’
Fearful of once more giving way to unseasonable mirth I rushed from the
room and hurried downstairs; the crowd that had so lately accompanied me
was now scattered, each to his several home. The only one who lingered
near the door was the poor idiot (for such he was) that wore the
huntsman’s dress.
‘Is the Loughrea car gone, Joe?’ said I, for I remembered his name.
‘She is, yer honour, she’s away.’
‘Is there any means of getting over to-night?’
‘Barrin’ walkin’, there’s none.’
‘Ay; but,’ said I, ‘were I even disposed for that, I have got my
luggage.’
‘Is it heavy?’ said Joe.
‘This portmanteau and the carpet-bag you see there.’
‘I’ll carry them,’ was the brief reply.
‘You ‘ll not be able, my poor fellow,’ said I.
‘Ay, and you on the top of them.’
‘You don’t know how heavy I am,’ said I laughingly.
‘Begorra, I wish you was heavier.’
‘And why so, Joe?’
‘Because one that was so good to the poor is worth his weight in goold
any day.’
I do not pretend to say whether it was the flattery, or the promise
these words gave me of an agreeable companion _en route_; but, certain
it is, I at once closed with his proposal, and, with a ceremonious bow
to the Grand Canal Hotel, took my departure, and set out for Loughrea.
CHAPTER XXI. LOUGHREA
With the innate courtesy of his country, my humble companion endeavoured
to lighten the road by song and story. There was not a blackened gable,
not a ruined tower, not even a well we passed, without its legend. The
very mountains themselves, that reared their mighty peaks towards
the clouds, had their tale of superstitious horror; and, though
these stories were simple in themselves, there was something in
the association of the scene, something in the warm fervour of his
enthusiasm that touched and thrilled my heart.
Like a lamp, whose fitful glare flickers through the gloomy vault of
some rocky cavern, too feeble to illumine it, but yet calling up wild
and goblin shapes on every side, and peopling space with flickering
spectres, so did the small modicum of intellect this poor fellow
possessed enable him to look at life with strange, distorted views.
Accustomed to pass his days in the open air--the fields, the flowers,
the streams, his companions--he had a sympathy in the eddying current
that flowed on beneath--in the white cloud that rolled above him.
Happy--for he had no care--he journeyed about from one county to
another. In the hunting season he would be seen lounging about a kennel,
making or renewing his intimacy with the dogs, who knew and loved him;
then he was always ready to carry a drag, to stop an earth, or do a
hundred other of those minor services that are ever wanted. Many who
lived far from a post-town knew the comfort of falling in with poor
‘Tipperary Joe.’ for such was he called. Not more fleet of foot than
honest in heart, oftentimes was a letter intrusted to his keeping that
with any other messenger would have excited feelings of anxiety. His was
an April-day temperament--ever varying, ever changing. One moment would
he tell, with quivering lip and broken voice, some story of wild and
thrilling interest; the next, breaking suddenly off, he would burst out
into some joyous rant, generally ending in a loud ‘tally-ho,’ in which
all his enthusiasm would shine forth, and in his glistening eye and
flushed cheek one could mark the pleasure that stirred his heart He knew
every one, not only in this, but in the surrounding counties; and they
stood severally classed in his estimation by their benevolence to the
poor, and their prowess in the hunting-field. These, with him, were the
two great qualities of mankind. The kind man, and the bold rider, made
his beau-ideal of all that was excellent, and it was strange to watch
with what ingenuity he could support his theory.
‘There’s Burton Pearse--that’s the darling of a man!
It’s he that’s good to the poor, and takes his walls flying. It isn’t
a lock of bacon or a bag of meal he cares for--be-gorra, it’s not that,
nor a double ditch would ever stop him. Hurroo! I think I’m looking at
him throwing up his whip-hand this way, going over a gate and calling
out to the servant, “Make Joe go in for his dinner, and give
him half-a-crown”--devil a less! And then there’s Mr. Power of
Kilfane--maybe your honour knows him? Down in Kilkenny, there. He’s
another of them--one of the right sort. I wish you see him facing a
leap--a little up in his stirrups, just to look over and see the ground,
and then--hoo! he’s across and away. A beautiful place he has of it, and
an elegant pack of dogs, fourteen hunters in the stable, and as pleasant
a kitchen as ever I broke my fast in. The cook’s a mighty nice woman--a
trifle fat, or so; but a good sowl, and a raal warrant for an Irish
stew.’ ‘And Mr. Ulick Burke, Joe, do you know him?’ ‘Is it blazing
Burke? Faix, I do know him! I was as near him as I am to you when he
shot Matt Callanan at the mills. “There, now,” says he, when he put a
ball in his hip, and lamed him for life, “you were always fond of your
trade, and I’ll make you a hopper.” And sure enough, this is the way he
goes ever since.’
‘He is a good horseman, they tell me, Joe?’ ‘The best in Ireland; for
following the dogs, flat race, or steeplechase, show me his equal. Och!
it’s himself has the seat in a saddle. Mighty short he rides with his
knees up, this way, and his toes out. Not so purty to look at, till you
are used to it; but watch him fingering his baste--feeling his mouth
with the snaffle--never tormenting, but just letting him know who is on
his back. It ‘s raal pleasure to look at him; and then to see him taking
a little canter before he sets off, with his hand low, and just tickling
the flanks with his spurs, to larn the temper of the horse. May I never!
if it isn’t a heavenly sight!’ ‘You like Mr. Burke, then, I see, Joe?’
‘Like him! Who wouldn’t like him a-horseback? Isn’t he the moral of a
rider, that knows his baste better than I know my Hail Mary? But see
him afoot, he’s the greatest divil from here to Croaghpatrick--nothing
civiller in his mouth than a curse and a “bloody end” to ye! Och! it’s
himself hates the poor, and they hate him; the beggars run away from him
as if he was the police; and the blind man that sits on Banagher Bridge
takes up his bags, and runs for the bare life the minit he hears the
trot of his horse. Isn’t it a wonder how he rides so bowld with all the
curses over him? Faix, myself wouldn’t cross that little stream there,
if I was like him. Well, well, he’ll have a hard reckoning at last. He’s
killed five men already, and wounded a great many more; but they say
he won’t be able to go on much further, for when he kills another the
divil’s to come for him. The Lord be about us! by rason he never let’s
any one kill more nor six.’
Thus chatting away, the road passed over; and as the sun was setting we
came in sight of the town, now not above a mile distant.
‘That’s Loughrea you see there--it’s a mighty fine place,’ said Joe.
‘There’s slate houses, and a market and a barrack; but you ‘ll stop a
few days in the town?’
‘Oh, certainly; I wish to see this race.’
‘That will be the fine race. It is a great country entirely--every kind
of fence, gates, ditches, and stone walls, as thick as they can lie.
I’ll show you all the course, for I know it well, and tell you the names
of all the gentlemen, and the names of their horses, and their servants;
and I’ll bring you where you ‘ll see the whole race, from beginning to
end, without stirring an inch. Are you going to bet any money?’
‘I believe not, Joe; but I’m greatly interested for a friend.’
‘And who is he?’
‘Captain O’Grady.’
‘Master Phil! Tare-an’-ages! are you a friend of Master Phil’s? Arrah,
why didn’t you tell me that before? Why didn’t you mintion his name
to me? Och! isn’t myself proud this evening to be with a friend of the
Captain’s. See now, what’s your name?’
‘Hinton,’ said I.
‘Ay, but your Christian name?’
‘They who know me best call me Jack Hinton.’
‘Musha! but I’d like to call you Jack Hinton just for this once. Now,
will you do one thing for me?’
‘To be sure, Joe; what is it?’
‘Make them give me a half-pint to drink your health and the Captain’s;
for, faix, you must be the right sort, or he wouldn’t keep company with
you. It’s just like yesterday to me the day I met him, down at Bishop’s
Loch. The hounds came to a check, and a hailstorm came on, and all the
gentlemen went into a little shebeen house for shelter. I was standing
outside, as it may be here, when Master Phil saw me. “Come in, Joe,”
says he; “you ‘re the best company, and the pleasantest fellow over a
mug of egg-nip.” And may I never! if he didn’t make me sit down fornint
him at a little table, and drink two quarts of as beautiful flip as
ever I tasted. And Master Phil has a horse here, ye tell me--what’s his
name?’
‘That, Joe, I am afraid I can’t pronounce for you; it’s rather beyond my
English tongue; but I know that his colour’s grey, and that he has one
cropped ear.’
‘That’s Moddiridderoo!’ shouted Joe, as throwing my portmanteau to
the ground, he seated himself leisurely on it, and seemed lost in
meditation.
‘Begorra,’ said he at length, ‘he chose a good-tempered one, when he was
about it! there never was such a horse foaled in them parts. Ye heard
what he did to Mr. Shea, the man that bred him? He threw him over
a wall, and then jumped after him; and if it wasn’t that his
guardian-angel made his leather breeches so strong, he’d have ate him
up entirely! Sure, there’s no one can ride him barrin’ the man I was
talkin’ of.’
‘Well, Joe, I believe Mr. Burke is to ride him.’
‘Musha! but I am sorry for it!’
‘And why so? You seem to think highly of his horsemanship.’
‘There’s no mistaken that, ay it was fair; but then, you see, he has
as many tricks in him as the devil. Sometimes he ‘ll break his stirrup
leather, or he ‘ll come in a pound too heavy, or he’ll slip the snaffle
out of the mouth; for he doesn’t care for his neck. Once I see him stake
his baste, and bring him in dead lame.’
Here ended our conversation; for by this time we entered the town,
and proceeded to Mrs. Doolan’s. The house was full, or the apartments
bespoke; and I was turning away in disappointment, when I accidentally
overheard the landlady mention the two rooms ordered by Captain O’Grady.
A little explanation ensued, and I discovered, to my delight, that these
were destined for me by my friend, who had written sometime before to
secure them. A few minutes more saw me comfortably installed in the
little inn, whose unpretending exterior and cheerful comfort within
doors were the direct antithesis to the solemn humbug I had left at
Shannon Harbour.
Under Joe’s auspices--for he had established himself as my own man--tea
and rashers made their appearance. My clothes were unpacked and put by;
and as he placed my dressing-gown and slippers in readiness before
the fire, I could not help observing the servant-like alacrity of his
manner, perfect in everything, save in his habit of singing to himself
as he went, which I can’t say, however, that I disliked, and certainly
never dreamed of checking. Having written a few lines to Mr. Burke,
expressing my desire for a few minutes’ interview the following morning,
I despatched the note, and prepared for bed.
I had often listened with apathy to the wise saws of people who, never
having felt either hunger or fatigue, are so fond of pronouncing
a glowing eulogium on such luxuries, when the period of their
gratification has arrived; but, I confess, as I lay down that night in
bed, and drew the clothes around me, I began to believe that they
had underrated the pleasures they spoke of. The house clock ticked
pleasantly in the room without; the cheerful turf-fire threw its mild
red light across the room; the sounds from the street were those of
happy voices and merry laughter, and when I ceased to hear them I had
fallen into a sound and peaceful sleep.
It was after about a dozen efforts, in which I had gone through all the
usual formula on such occasions--rubbing my eyes, stretching, and even
pinching myself--before I could awake on the following morning. I felt
somewhat stiffened from the unaccustomed exertions of the day before,
but, somehow, my spirits were unusually high, and my heart in its very
lightest mood. I looked about me through the little room, where all was
order, neatness, and propriety. My clothes carefully brushed and folded,
my boots resplendent in their blacking, stood basking before the
fire; even my hat, placed gently on one side, with my gloves carefully
flattened, were laid out in true valet fashion. The door into my
little sitting-room lay open, and I could mark the neat and comfortable
preparations for my breakfast, while at a little distance from the
table, and in an attitude of patient attention, stood poor Joe himself,
who, with a napkin across his arm, was quietly waiting the moment of my
awaking.
I know not if my reader will have any sympathy with the confession;
but I own I have always felt a higher degree of satisfaction from the
unbought and homely courtesy chance has thrown in my way, than from the
more practised and dearly-paid-for attentions of the most disciplined
household. There is something nattering in the personal devotion which
seems to spring from pure good-will, that insensibly raises one in his
own esteem. In some such reflection as this was I lost, when the door
of my outer room was opened, and a voice inquired if Mr. Hinton stopped
there.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Joe; ‘he is in bed and asleep.’
‘Ah! it is you, Joe?’ replied the other. ‘So you are turned footman,
I see. If the master be like the man, it ought to be a shrewd
establishment.’
‘No,’ replied Joe carelessly; ‘he’s not very like anything down in these
parts, for he appears to be a gentleman.’
‘Tell him I am here, and be d----d to you,’ was the indignant reply, as
the speaker threw himself into his chair and stirred the fire with his
foot.
Suspecting at once who my visitor was, I motioned to Joe to leave
the room, and proceeded to dress myself with all despatch. During the
operation, however, my friend without manifested several symptoms of
impatience: now walking the room with rapid strides, as he whistled
a quick step; now beating the bars of the grate with a poker, and
occasionally performing that popular war-dance, ‘The Devil’s Tattoo,’
with his knuckles upon the table. At length his endurance seemed pushed
to its limit, and he knocked sharply at the door, calling out at the
same moment--
‘I say, sir, time’s up, if you please.’
The next moment I was before him.
Mr. Ulick Burke--for I need not say it was he--was a well-looking man,
of about eight-and-twenty or thirty years of age. Although his height
was below the middle size, he was powerfully and strongly made; his
features would have been handsome, were it not for a certain expression
of vulgar suspicion that played about the eyes, giving him a sidelong
look when he spoke; this, and the loss of two front teeth from a fall,
disfigured a face originally pleasing. His whiskers were large, bushy,
and meeting beneath his chin. As to his dress, it was in character with
his calling--a green coat cut round in jockey fashion, over which he
wore a white ‘bang-up,’ as it was called, in one pocket of which was
carelessly thrust a lash-whip; a belcher handkerchief, knotted loosely
about his neck, buckskin breeches, reaching far down upon the leg, and
top-boots completed his costume. I had almost forgotten a hat, perhaps
the most characteristic thing of all. This, which once had been white,
was now, by stress of time and weather, of a dirty drab colour, its
crown dinged in several places, and the leaf jagged and broken, bespoke
the hard usage to which it was subjected. While speaking, he held it
firmly clutched in his ungloved hand, and from time to time struck it
against his thigh, with an energy of manner that seemed habitual His
manner was a mixture of timid embarrassment and vulgar assurance,
feeling his way, as it were, with one, while he forgot himself with the
other. With certain remnants of the class he originally belonged to,
he had associated the low habitudes and slang phraseology of his daily
associates, making it difficult for one, at first sight, to discover to
which order he belonged. In the language of his companions, Click Burke
‘could be a gentleman when he pleased it.’
How often have we heard this phrase, and with what a fatal mistake is
it generally applied! He who can be a gentleman when he pleases, never
pleases to be anything else. Circumstances may, and do, every day in
life, throw men of cultivated minds and refined habits into the society
of their inferiors; but while, with the tact and readiness that is their
especial prerogative, they make themselves welcome among those with whom
they have few, if any, sympathies in common, yet never by any accident
do they derogate from that high standard that makes them gentlemen. So,
on the other hand, the man of vulgar tastes and coarse propensities may
simulate, if he be able, the outward habitudes of society, speaking with
practised intonation and bowing with well-studied grace; yet is he no
more a gentleman in his thought or feeling than is the tinselled actor,
who struts the board, the monarch his costume would bespeak him. This
being the ‘gentleman when he likes’ is but the mere performance of the
character. It has all the smell of the orange-peel and the footlights
about it, and never can be mistaken by any one who knows the world.
But to come back to Mr. Burke. Having eyed me for a second or two, with
a look of mingled distrust and impertinence, he unfolded my note, which
he held beneath his fingers, and said--
‘I received this from you last night, Mr. ------’
‘Hinton,’ said I, assisting him.
‘Mr. Hinton,’ repeated he slowly.
‘Won’t you be seated?’ said I, pointing to a chair, and taking one
myself.
He nodded familiarly, and placing himself on the window-sill, with one
foot upon a chair, resumed--
‘It’s about O’Gradys business I suppose you’ve come down here. The
Captain has treated me very ill.’
‘You are quite right,’ said I coolly, ‘in guessing the object of my
visit; but I must also let you know, that in any observations you make
concerning Captain O’Grady, they are made to a friend, who will no more
permit his name to be slightingly treated than his own.’
‘Of course,’ pronounced with a smile of the most insulting coolness,
was the only reply. ‘That, however, is not the matter in hand: _your
friend_, the Captain, never condescended to answer my letter.’
‘He only received it a few days ago.’
‘Why isn’t he here himself? Is a gentleman-rider to be treated like a
common jockey that’s paid for his race?’
I confess the distinction was too subtle for me, but I said nothing in
reply.
‘I don’t even know where the horse is, nor if he is here at all. Will
you call that handsome treatment Mr. Hinton?’
‘One thing I am quite sure of, Mr. Burke--Captain O’Grady is incapable
of anything unworthy or unbecoming a gentleman; the haste of his
departure for foreign service may have prevented him observing certain
matters of etiquette towards you, but he has commissioned me to accept
your terms. The horse is here, or will be here to-night; and I trust
nothing will interrupt the good understanding that has hitherto
subsisted between you.’
‘And will he take up the writ?’ ‘He will,’ said I firmly.
‘He must have a heavy book on the race.’ ‘Nearly a thousand pounds.’
‘I’m sorry for it for his sake,’ was the cool reply, ‘for he’ll lose his
money.’
‘Indeed!’ said I; ‘I understand that you thought well of his horse, and
that with your riding----’
‘Ay; but I won’t ride for him.’
‘You won’t ride!--not on your own terms?’
‘No; not even on my own terms. Don’t be putting yourself into a passion,
Mr. Hinton--you’ve come down to a country where that never does any
good; we settle all our little matters here in a social, pleasant way
of our own. But, I repeat it, I won’t ride for your friend; so you may
withdraw his horse as soon as you like; except,’ added he, with a most
contemptuous sneer, ‘you have a fancy for riding him yourself.’
Resolving that whatever course I should follow I would at least keep my
temper for the present, I assumed as much calmness as I could command,
and said--
‘And what is there against O’Gradys horse?’
‘A chestnut mare of Tom Molloy’s, that can beat him over any country.
The rest are withdrawn; so that I’ll have a “ride over” for my pains.’
‘Then you ride for Mr. Molloy?’ said I.
‘You’ve guessed it,’ replied he with a wink, as throwing his hat
carelessly on one side of his head he gave me an insolent nod and
lounged out of the room.
I need not say that my breakfast appetite was not improved by Mr.
Burke’s visit; in fact, never was a man more embarrassed than I was.
Independent of the loss of his money, I knew how poor Phil would suffer
from the duplicity of the transaction; and in my sorrow for his sake I
could not help accusing myself of ill-management in the matter. Had
I been more conciliating or more blunt--had I bullied, or bid higher,
perhaps a different result might have followed. Alas! in all my
calculations, I knew little or nothing of him with whom I had to deal.
Puzzled and perplexed, uncertain how to act--now resolving on one
course, now deciding on the opposite, I paced my little room for above
an hour, the only conviction I could come to being the unhappy choice
that poor O’Grady had made when he selected me for his negotiator.
The town clock struck twelve. I remembered suddenly that was the hour
when the arrangements for the race were to be ratified; and without a
thought of what course I should pursue, what plan I should adopt, I took
my hat and sallied forth.
The main street of the little town was crowded with people, most of
them of that class which, in Irish phrase, goes by the appellation of
squireen--a species of human lurcher, without any of the good properties
of either class from which it derives its origin, but abounding in
the bad traits of both. They lounged along, followed by pointers and
wire-haired greyhounds, their hands stuck in their coat-pockets, and
their hats set well back on their heads. Following in the train of this
respectable cortege, I reached the market-house, upon the steps of which
several ‘sporting gentlemen’ of a higher order were assembled. Elbowing
my way with some difficulty through these, I mounted a dirty and sandy
stair to a large room, usually employed by the magistrates for their
weekly sessions; here, at a long table, sat the race committee, an
imposing display of books, pens, and papers before them. A short little
man, with a powdered head, and a certain wheezing chuckle when he spoke
that voluntarily suggested the thought of apoplexy, seemed to be the
president of the meeting.
The room was so crowded with persons of every class that I could with
difficulty catch what was going forward. I looked anxiously round to see
if I could not recognise some friend or acquaintance, but every face
was strange to me. The only one I had ever seen before was Mr. Burke
himself, who with his back to the fire was edifying a select circle of
his friends by what I discovered, from the laughter of his auditory, was
a narrative of his visit to myself. The recital must have owed something
to his ingenuity in telling, for indeed the gentlemen seemed convulsed
with mirth; and when Mr. Burke concluded, it was plain to see that he
stood several feet higher in the estimation of hie acquaintances.
‘Silence!’ wheezed the little man with the white head: ‘it is a quarter
past twelve o’clock, and I’ll not wait any longer.’
‘Read the list, Maurice,’ cried some one. ‘As it is only “a walk over,”
you needn’t lose any time.’
‘Here, then, No. 1--Captain Fortescue’s Tramp.’ ‘Withdrawn,’ said a
voice in the crowd. ‘No. 2--Harry Studdard’s Devil-may-care.’
‘Paid forfeit,’ cried another.
‘No. 3--Sir George O’Brien’s Billy-the-bowl.’ ‘Gone home again,’ was the
answer. ‘No. 4--Tom Molloy’s Cathleen.’
‘All right!’ shouted Mr. Burke, from the fireplace» ‘Who rides?’ asked
the president.
‘Ulick!’ repeated half-a-dozen voices together.
‘Eleven stone eight,’ said the little man.
‘And a pound for the martingale,’ chimed in Mr. Burke.
‘Well, I believe that’s all. No; there’s another horse-Captain O’Grady’s
Moddiridderoo.’
‘Scratch him out with the rest,’ said Mr. Burke.
‘No!’ said I, from the back of the room.
The word seemed electric; every eye was turned towards the quarter where
I stood; and as I moved forward towards the table the crowd receded to
permit my passage.
‘Are you on the part of Mr. O’Grady, sir?’ said the little man, with a
polite smile.
I bowed an affirmative.
‘He does not withdraw his horse, then?’ said he.
‘No,’ said I again.
‘But you are aware, sir, that Mr. Burke is going to ride for my friend,
Mr. Molloy, here. Are you prepared with another gentleman?’
I nodded shortly.’
‘His name, may I ask?’ continued he. ‘Mr. Hinton.’
By this time Mr. Burke, attracted by the colloquy, had approached the
table, and, stooping down, whispered some words in the president’s ear.
‘You will forgive me, I’m sure,’ said the latter, addressing me, ‘if I
ask, as the name is unknown to me, if this be a gentleman-rider?’
The blood rushed to my face and temples. I knew at once from whom this
insult proceeded. It was no time, however, to notice it, so I simply
replied--
‘Mr. Hinton is an officer of the Guards, an aide-de-camp to the Lord
Lieutenant, and I beg leave respectfully to present him to you.’
The obsequious civility exhibited by the party as I pronounced these
few words were an ample _amende_ for what I had suffered a few minutes
before. Meanwhile, Mr. Burke had resumed his place at the fire, once
more surrounded by his admiring satellites.
Being accommodated with a chair at the table, I proceeded to read over
and sign the usual papers, by which I bound myself to abide by the
regulations of the course, and conform in all things to the decision of
the stewards. Scarcely had I concluded, when Mr. Burke called out--
‘Who’ll take eight to one on the race?’
Not a word was spoken in reply.
‘Who’ll take fifty to five?’ cried he again.
‘I will,’ said a voice from the door.
‘Who is that takes my bet? What is his name?’ ‘Tom Loftus, P.P. of
Murranakilty.’
‘A better fellow nor an honester couldn’t do it, said the president.
‘Book your bet, sir,’ said Mr. Burke; ‘or if it is equally convenient
for you, you can pay it at present.’
‘I never make a memorandum of such trifles,’ said the priest; ‘but I’ll
stake the money in some decent man’s hands.’
A roar of laughter followed the priest’s proposition, than which nothing
could be less to Mr. Burke’s taste. This time, however, he was in funds;
and while the good father disengaged his five-pound note from the folds
of a black leather pocket-book as large as a portfolio, his antagonist
threw a fifty on the table, with an air of swaggering importance.
I turned now to shake hands with my friend; but to my surprise and
astonishment he gave me a look of cold and impressive import, that
showed me at once he did not wish to be recognised, and the next moment
left the room. My business there was also concluded, and having promised
to be forthcoming the following day at two o’clock, I bowed to the
chairman and withdrew.
CHAPTER XXII. A MOONLIGHT CANTER
I was not quite satisfied with the good priest for his having cut me, no
matter what his reasons. I was not overmuch pleased with the tone of the
whole meeting itself, and certainly I was very little satisfied with the
part I had myself taken therein; for as cooler judgment succeeded to hot
excitement, I perceived in what a mesh of difficulties I had involved
myself, and how a momentary flush of passionate indignation had carried
me away beyond the bounds of reason and sense, to undertake what but
half an hour previously I should have shrunk from with shame, and the
very thought of which now filled me with apprehension and dread--not
indeed as to the consequences to myself, physically considered, for most
willingly would I have compounded for a fractured limb, or even two, to
escape the ridicule I was almost certain of incurring. This it was which
I could not bear, and my _amore propre_ recoiled from the thought of
being a laughing-stock to the underbred and ill-born horde that would
assemble to witness me.
When I arrived at the inn poor Joe was there awaiting me; he had been
down to see the horse, which for precaution’s sake was kept at a mill a
little distance from the town, and of whose heart and condition he spoke
in glowing terms.
‘Och! he is a raal beauty--a little thick in fat about the crest,
but they say he always trains fleshy, and his legs are as clean as a
whistle. Sorra bit, but it will give Mr. Ulick as much as he can do to
ride him to-morrow. I know by the way he turns his eyes round to you in
the stable he’s in the devil’s temper.’
‘But it is not Mr. Burke, Joe--I am going to ride him.’
‘You are going to do it! You! Oh! by the powers! Mr. Ulick wasn’t
far out when he said the master was as mad as the man. “Tell me your
company,” says the old proverb; and you see there it is. What comes of
it? If you lie down with dogs, you’ll get up with fleas; and that’s the
fruits of travelling with a fool.’
I was in no temper for badinage at the moment, and replied to the poor
fellow in a somewhat harsher tone than I should have used; and as he
left the room without speaking, I felt ashamed and angry with myself
for thus banishing the only one that seemed to feel an interest in my
fortunes.
I sat down to my dinner discontented and unhappy. But a few hours
previous, and I awoke high in heart and hope; and now without any
adverse stroke of fortune, without any of those casualties of fate which
come on us unlooked for and unthought of, but simply by the un-guided
exercise of a passionate temperament, I found myself surrounded by
embarrassments and environed by difficulties, without one friend to
counsel or advise me.
Yes--I could not conceal it from myself--my determination to ride the
steeplechase was the mere outbreak of passion. The taunting insolence
of Burke had stung me to adopt a course which I had neither previously
considered, nor, if suggested by another, could ever have consented to.
True, I was what could be called a good horseman. In the two seasons I
had spent in Leicestershire, on a visit to a relative, I had acquitted
myself with credit and character; but a light weight splendidly mounted
on a trained hunter, over his accustomed country, has no parallel with
the same individual upon a horse he has never crossed, over a country he
has never seen. These and a hundred similar considerations came rushing
on me now when it was too late. However, the thing was done, and
there being no possible way of undoing it, there was but one road, the
straightforward, to follow in the case. Alas! half of our philosophy in
difficulties consists in shutting our eyes firmly against consequences,
and, _tête baissée_, rushing headlong at the future. Though few may be
found willing to admit that the bull in the china-shop is the model of
their prudence, I freely own it was mine, and that I made up my mind to
ride the horse with the unspeakable name as long as he would permit
me to ride him, at everything, over everything, or through everything
before me. This conclusion at length come to, I began to feel more easy
in my mind. Like the felon that feels there is no chance of a reprieve,
I could look my fate more steadily in the face.
I had no great appetite for my dinner, but I sat over an excellent
bottle of port, sipping and sipping, each glass I swallowed lending a
rose tint to the future. The second bottle had just been placed on
the table before me, when O’Gradys groom came in to receive his
instructions. He had heard nothing of my resolution to ride, and
certainly looked aghast when I announced it to him. By this time,
however, I had combated my own fears, and I was not going to permit his
to terrify me. Affecting the easy nonchalance of that excellent type Mr.
Ulick Burke, I thrust my hands into my coat-pockets, and standing with
my back to the fire, began questioning him about the horse. Confound it!
there’s no man so hard to humbug as an Irishman, but if he be a groom,
I pronounce the thing impossible. The fellow saw through me in a
moment; and as he sipped the glass of wine I had filled out for him, he
approached me confidentially, while he said in a low tone--
‘Did you say you ‘d ride him?’
‘Yes, to be sure I did.’
‘You did! well, well! there’s no helping it, since you said it. There’s
only one thing to be done’--he looked cautiously about the room, lest
any one should overhear him. ‘There’s but one thing I know of---let him
throw you at the first leap. Mind me now, just leave it to himself; hell
give you no trouble in life; and all you have to do is to choose the
soft side. It’s not your fault after that, you know, for I needn’t tell
you he won’t be caught before night.’
I could not help laughing at this new receipt for riding a steeplechase,
although I confess it did not raise my courage regarding the task before
me.
‘But what does he do?’ said I--‘this infernal beast; what trick has he?’
‘It isn’t one, but a hundred that he has. First of all, it isn’t so easy
to get on his back, for he is as handy with his hind foot as a fiddler;
and if you are not mighty quick in mounting, he ‘ll strike you down with
it. Then, when you are up, maybe he won’t move at all, but stand with
his forelegs out, his head down, and his eyes turned back just like a
picture, hitting his flanks between times with his long tail You may
coax him, pet him, and pat him--‘faith, you might as well be tickling
a milestone; for it’s laughing at you he ‘ll be all the time. Maybe at
last you ‘ll get tired, and touch him with the spur. Hurroo! begorra,
you ‘ll get it then!’
‘Why--what happens then?’
‘What happens, is it? Maybe it’s your neck is broke, or your thigh, or
your collar-bone at least. He ‘ll give you a straight plunge up in the
air, about ten feet high, throw his head forward till he either pulls
the reins out of your hands or lifts you out of the saddle, and at the
same moment he’ll give you a blow with his hind-quarters in the small of
the back. Och, murther!’ said he, placing both hands upon his loins, and
writhing as he spoke, ‘it’ll be six weeks to-morrow since he made one of
them buck-leaps with me, and I never walked straight since. But that is
not all.’
‘Come, come,’ said I impatiently, ‘this is all nonsense; he only wants a
man with a little pluck to bully him out of all this.’
As I said these valorous words I own that to my own heart I didn’t
exactly correspond to the person I described; but as the bottle of port
was now finished, I set forth with my companion to pay my first visit to
this redoubted animal.
The mill where the stable lay was about a mile from the town; but the
night was a fine moonlight one, with not an air of wind stirring, and
the walk delightful When we reached the little stream that turned the
mill, over which a plank was thrown as a bridge, we perceived that a
country lad was walking a pair of saddle-horses backwards and forwards
near the spot. The suspicion of some trickery, some tampering with the
horse, at once crossed me; and I hinted as much to the groom.
‘No, no,’ said he, laughing, ‘make your mind easy about that. Mr. Ulick
Burke knows the horse well, and he’ll leave it all to himself.’
The allusion was a pleasant one; but I said nothing, and walked on.
Having procured a lantern at the mill, the groom preceded me to the
little outhouse, which acted as stable. He opened the door cautiously,
and peeped in.
‘He’s lying down,’ said he to me in a whisper, and at the same moment
taking the candle from the lantern, he held it up to permit my obtaining
a better view. ‘Don’t be afeard,’ continued he, ‘he ‘ll not stir
now, the thief of the earth! When once he’s down that way, he lies as
peaceable as a lamb.’
As well as I could observe him, he was a magnificent horse--a little too
heavy perhaps about the crest and forehand, but then so strong behind,
such powerful muscle about the haunches, that his balance was well
preserved. As I stood contemplating him in silence, I felt the breath of
some one behind me. I turned suddenly around; it was Father Tom Loftus
himself. There was the worthy priest, mopping his forehead with a huge
pocket-handkerchief and blowing like a rhinoceros.
‘Ugh!’ said he at length, ‘I have been running up and down the roads
this half-hour after you, and there’s not a puff left in me.’
‘Ah, father! I hoped to have seen you at the inn.’ ‘Whisht! I darn’t.
I thought I’d do it better my own way; but, see now, we’ve no time to
lose. I knew as well as yourself you never intended to ride this race.
No matter; don’t say a word, but listen to me. I know the horse better
than any one in these parts; and it isn’t impossible, if you can keep
the saddle over the first two or three fences, that you may win. I say,
if you can--for ‘faith it’s not in a “swing-swong” you’ll be! But, come
now, the course was marked out this evening. Burke was over it before
dinner; and, with a blessing, we will be before supper. I’ve got a
couple of hacks here that’ll take us over every bit of it; and perhaps
it is not too much to say you might have a worse guide.’
‘‘Faith, your reverence,’ chimed in the groom, ‘he’d find it hard to
have a better.’
Thanking the kind priest for his good-natured solicitude, I followed him
out upon the road, where the two horses were waiting us.
‘There, now,’ said he, ‘get up; the stirrups are about your length. He
looks a little low in flesh, but you’ll not complain of him when he’s
under you.’
The next moment we were both in the saddle. Taking a narrow path that
led off from the highroad, we entered a large tilled field; keeping
along the headlands of which, we came to a low stone wall, through a gap
of which we passed, and came out upon an extensive piece, of grassland,
that gently sloped away from where we were standing to a little stream
at its base, an arm of that which supplied the mill.
‘Here, now,’ said the priest, ‘a little to the left yonder is the start.
You come down this hill; you take the water there, and you keep along
by Freney’s house, where you see the trees there. There’s only a small
stone wall and a clay ditch between this and that; afterwards you turn
off to the right. But, come now, are you ready? We’ll explore a bit.’
As he spoke, the good priest, putting spurs to his hackney, dashed on
before me, and motioning me to follow, cantered down the slope. Taking
the little mill-stream at a fly, he turned in his saddle to watch my
performance.
‘Neat! mighty neat!’ cried he, encouraging me. ‘Keep your hand a little
low. The next is a wall----’
Scarcely had he spoke when we both came together at a stone-fence, about
three feet high. This time I was a little in advance, as my horse was
fresher, and took it first.
‘Oh, the devil a better!’ said Father Tom. ‘Burke himself couldn’t beat
that! Here, now: keep this way out of the deep ground, and rush him at
the double ditch there.’
Resolved on securing his good opinion, I gripped my saddle firmly with
my knees, and rode at the fence. Over we went in capital style; but
lighting on the top of a rotten ditch, the ground gave way, and my
horse’s hind legs slipped backwards into the gripe. Being at full
stretch, the poor animal had no power to recover himself, so that,
disengaging his forelegs, I pulled him down into the hollow, and then
with a vigorous dash of the spur and a bold lift carried him clean over
it into the field.
‘Look, now!’ said the priest; ‘that pleases me better than all you did
before. Presence of mind--that’s the real gift for a horseman when he’s
in a scrape; but, mind me, it was your own fault, for here’s the way to
take the fence.’ So saying, he made a slight semicircle in the field,
and then, as he headed his horse towards the leap, rushed him at it
furiously, and came over like the bound of a stag.
‘Now,’ said Father Tom, pointing with his whip as he spoke, ‘we have a
beautiful bit of galloping-ground before us; and if you ever reach this
far, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t, here’s where you ought to make
play. Listen to me now,’ said he, dropping his voice: ‘Tom Molloy s mare
isn’t thoroughbred, though they think she is. She has got a bad drop in
her. Now, the horse is all right, clean bred, sire and dam, by reason he
‘ll be able to go through the dirt when the mare can’t; so that all you
‘ve to do, if, as I said before, you get this far, is to keep straight
down to the two thorn-bushes--there, you see them yonder. Burke won’t
be able to take that line, but must keep upon the headlands, and go all
round yonder; look, now, you see the difference--so that before he can
get over that wide ditch you’ll be across it, and making for the stone
wall After that, by the powers, if you don’t win, I, can’t help you!’
‘Where does the course turn after, father?’ said I.
‘Oh! a beautiful line of flat country, intersprinkled with walls,
ditches, and maybe a hedge or two; but all fair, and only one rasping
fence--the last of all. After that, you have a clean gallop of about a
quarter of a mile, over as nice a sod as ever you cantered.’
‘And that last fence, what is it like?’
‘‘Faith, it is a rasper! It’s a wide gully, where there was a _boreen_
once, and they say it is every inch of sixteen feet--that’ll make it
close upon twenty when you clear the clay on both sides. The grey horse,
I’m told, has a way of jumping in and jumping out of these narrow roads;
but take my advice, and go it in a fly. And now, Captain, what between
the running, and the riding, and the talking altogether, I am as dry as
a limekiln; so what do you say if we turn back to town, and have a bit
of supper together? There’s a kind of a cousin of mine, one Bob Mahon,
a Major in the Roscommon, and he has got a grouse-pie, and something hot
to dilute it with, waiting for us.’
‘Nothing will give me more pleasure, father; and there’s only one thing
more--indeed I had nearly forgotten it altogether----‘’
‘What’s that?’ said the priest, with surprise.
‘Not having any intention to ride, I left town without any racing
equipment; breeches and boots I have, but as to a cap and a jacket----’
‘I ‘ve provided for both,’ said Father Tom. ‘You saw the little man
with a white head that sat at the head of the table--Tom Dillon of Mount
Brown; you know him?’
‘I am not acquainted with him.’
‘Well, he knows you; that’s all the same. His son, that’s just gone to
Gibraltar with his regiment, was about your size, and he had a new cap
and jacket made for this very race, and of course they are lying there
and doing nothing. So I sent over a little gossoon with a note, and I
don’t doubt but they are all at the inn this moment.’
‘By Jove, father!’ said I, ‘you are a real friend, and a most thoughtful
one, too.’
‘Maybe I’ll do better than that for you,’ said he, with a sly wink of
his eye, that somehow suggested to my mind that he knew more of and took
a deeper interest in me than I had reason to believe.
CHAPTER XXIII. MAJOR MAHON AND HIS QUARTERS
The Major’s quarters were fixed in one of the best houses in the town,
in the comfortable back-parlour of which was now displayed a little
table laid for three persons. A devilled lobster, the grouse-pie already
mentioned, some fried ham, and crisped potatoes were the viands; but
each was admirable in its kind, and with the assistance of an excellent
bowl of hot punch and the friendly welcome of the host, left nothing to
be desired.
Major Bob Mahon was a short, thickset little man, with round blue
eyes, a turned-up nose, and a full under lip, which he had a habit of
protruding with an air of no mean pretension; a short crop of curly
black hair covered a head as round as a billiard-ball. These traits,
with a certain peculiar smack of his mouth, by which he occasionally
testified the approval of his own eloquence, were the most remarkable
things about him. His great ambition was to be thought a military man;
but somehow his pretensions in this respect smacked much more of the
militia than the line. Indeed, he possessed a kind of adroit way of
asserting the superiority of the former to the latter, averring that
they who fought _pro arts et focis_--the Major was fond of Latin--stood
on far higher ground than the travelled mercenaries who only warred for
pay. This peculiarity, and an absurd attachment to practical jokes, the
result of which had frequently through life involved him in lawsuits,
damages, compensations, and even duels, formed the great staple of his
character--of all which the good priest informed me most fully on our
way to the house.
‘Captain Hinton, I believe,’ said the Major, as he held out his hand in
welcome.
‘Mr. Hinton,’ said I, bowing.
‘Ay, yes; Father Tom, there, doesn’t know much about these matters. What
regiment, pray?’
‘The Grenadier Guards.’
‘Oh, a very good corps--mighty respectable corps; not that, between
ourselves, I think overmuch of the regulars; between you and me, I never
knew foreign travel do good to man or beast. What do they bring back
with them, I’d like to know?--French cookery and Italian licentiousness.
No, no; give me the native troops! You were a boy at the time, but maybe
you have heard how they behaved in the west, when Hoche landed. Egad! if
it wasn’t for the militia the country was sacked. I commanded a company
of the Roscommon at the time. I remember well we laid siege to a
windmill, held by a desperate fellow, the miller--a resolute character,
Mr. Hinton; he had two guns in the place with him.’
‘I wish to the Lord he had shot you with one of them, and we ‘d have
been spared this long story!’ said the priest.
‘I opened a parallel----’
‘Maybe you ‘d open the pie?’ said the priest, as he drew his chair, and
sat down to the table. ‘Perhaps you forget, Bob, we have had a sharp
ride of it this evening?’
‘Upon my conscience, so I did,’ replied the Major good-humouredly. ‘So
let us have a bit of supper now, Mr. Hinton, and I’ll finish my story
by-and-by.’
‘The Heavens forbid!’ piously ejaculated the priest, as he helped
himself to a very considerable portion of the lobster.
‘Is this a fast, Father Loftus?’ said I slyly.
‘No, my son, but we’ll make it one. That reminds me of what happened
to me going up in the boat. It was a Friday, and the dinner, as you
may suppose, was not over-good; but there was a beautiful cut of fried
salmon just before me--about a pound and a half, maybe two pounds; this
I slipped quietly on my plate, observing to the company, in this way,
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a fast day with me”--when a big fellow,
with red whiskers, stooped across the table, cut my bit of fish in two
halves, calling out as he carried off one, “Bad scran to ye! d’ye think
nobody has a soul to be saved but yourself?”’
‘Ah, they’re a pious people, are the Irish!’ said the Major solemnly,
‘and you’ll remark that when you see more of them. And now, Captain, how
do you like us here?’
‘Exceedingly,’ said I, with warmth. ‘I have had every reason to be
greatly pleased with Ireland.’
‘That’s right! and I’m glad of it! though, to be sure, you have not seen
us in our holiday garb. Ah, if you were here before the Union; if you
saw Dublin as I remember it--and Tom there remembers it--“that was a
pleasant place.” It was not trusting to balls and parties, to dinners
and routs, but to all kinds of fun and devilment besides. All the
members of Parliament used to be skylarking about the city, playing
tricks on one another, and humbugging the Castle people. And, to be
sure, the Castle was not the grave, stupid place it is now--they were
convivial, jovial fellows----’
‘Come, come, Major,’ interrupted I; ‘you are really unjust--the present
court is not the heavy----’
‘Sure, I know what it is well enough. Hasn’t the duke all the privy
council and the bishops as often to dinner as the garrison and the bar?
Isn’t he obliged to go to his own apartment when they want to make a
night of it, and sing a good chorus? Don’t tell me! Sure, even as late
as Lord Westmorland’s time it was another thing--pleasant and happy
times they were, and the country will never be the same till we have
them back again!’
Being somewhat curious to ascertain in what particular our degeneracy
consisted--for in my ignorance of better, I had hitherto supposed the
present regime about as gay a thing as need be--I gradually led the
Major on to talk of those happier days when Ireland kept all its fun for
home consumption, and never exported even its surplus produce.
‘It was better in every respect,’ responded the Major. ‘Hadn’t we all
the patronage amongst us? There’s Jonah, there--Harrington, I mean;
well, he and I could make anything, from a tide-waiter to a master in
Chancery. It’s little trouble small debts gave us then; a pipe of sherry
never cost me more than a storekeeper in the ordnance, and I kept my
horses at livery for three years with a washwoman to Kilmainham Hospital
And as for fun--look at the Castle now! Don’t I remember the times when
we used to rob the coaches coming from the drawing-rooms; and pretty
girls they were inside of them.’
‘For shame, for shame!’ cried Father Tom, with a sly look in the corner
of his eye that by no means bespoke a suitable degree of horror at such
unwarrantable proceedings.
‘Well, if it was a shame it was no sin,’ responded the Major; ‘for we
never took anything more costly than kisses. Ah, dear me! them was the
times! And, to be sure, every now and then we got a pull-up from the
Lady lieutenant, and were obliged to behave ourselves for a week or two
together. One thing she never could endure was a habit we had of leaving
the Castle before they themselves left the ball-room. I’m not going to
defend it--it was not very polite, I confess; but somehow or other there
was always something going on we couldn’t afford to lose--maybe a
supper at the barrack, or a snug party at Daly’s, or a bit of fun
elsewhere. Her Excellency, however, got angry about it, and we got a
quiet hint to reform our manners. This, I need not tell you, was a
hopeless course; so we hit on an expedient that answered to the full as
well. It was by our names being called out, as the carriages drove up,
that our delinquency became known. So Matt Fortescue suggested that we
should adopt some feigned nomenclature, which would totally defy every
attempt at discovery; the idea was excellent, and we traded on it for
many a day with complete success. One night, however, from some cause or
other, the carriages were late in arriving, and we were all obliged to
accompany the court into the supper-room. Angry enough we were; but
still there was no help for it; and so, “smiling through tears,” as the
poet says, in we went. Scarcely, however, had we taken our places when a
servant called out something from the head of the stairs; another
re-echoed it at the ante-chamber, and a third at the supper-room shouted
out, “Oliver Cromwell’s carriage stops the way!” The roar of laughter
the announcement caused shook the very room; but it had scarcely
subsided when there was another call for “Brian Boru’s coach,” quickly
followed by “Guy Fawkes” and “Paddy O’Rafferty’s jingle,” which latter
personage was no other than the Dean of Cork. I need not tell you that
we kept our secret, and joined in the universal opinion of the whole
room, “that the household was shamefully disguised in drink”; and indeed
there was no end to the mistakes that night, for every now and then some
character in heathen or modern history would turn up among the
announcements; and as the laughter burst forth, the servants would grow
ashamed for a while, and refuse to call any carriage where the style and
title was a little out of the common. Ah, Mr. Hinton, if you had lived
in those days! Well, well, no matter--here’s a glass to their memory,
anyway. It is the first time you ‘ve been in these parts, and I suppose
you haven’t seen much of the country?’
‘Very little indeed,’ replied I; ‘and even that much only by moonlight.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Father Tom, half pensively, ‘that many of your
countrymen take little else than a “dark view” of us.’
‘See now,’ said the Major, slapping his hand on the table with energy,
‘the English know as much about Pat as Pat knows of purgatory--no
offence to you, Mr. Hinton. I could tell you a story of a circumstance
that once happened to myself.’
No, no, Bob,’ said the priest; ‘it is bad taste to tell a story _en petit
comité_. I’ll leave it to the Captain.’
‘If I am to be the judge,’ said I laughingly, ‘I decide for the story.’
‘Let’s have it, then,’ said the priest. ‘Come, Bob, a fresh brew, and
begin your tale.’
‘You are a sensual creature, Father Tom,’ said the Major, ‘and prefer
drink to intellectual discussion; not but that you may have both here
at the same time. But in honour of my friend beside me, I’ll not bear
malice, but give you the story; and let me tell you, it is not every day
in the week a man hears a tale with a moral to it, particularly down in
this part of the country.’
CHAPTER XXIV. THE DEVIL’S GRIP
‘The way of it was this. There was a little estate of mine in the county
of Waterford that I used now and then to visit in the shooting season.
In fact, except for that, there was very little inducement to go there;
it was a bleak, ugly part of the country, a bad market-town near it, and
not a neighbour within twelve miles. Well, I went over there--it was, as
well as I remember, December two years. Never was there such weather;
it rained from morning till night, and blew and rained from night till
morning; the slates were flying about on every side, and we used to keep
fellows up all night, that in case the chimneys were blown away we ‘d
know where to find them in the morning. This was the pleasant weather
I selected for my visit to the “Devil’s Grip”--that was the name of the
town-land where the house stood; and no bad name either, for, ‘faith, if
he hadn’t his paw on it, it might have gone in law,-like the rest of the
property. However, down I went there, and only remembered on the evening
of my arrival that I had ordered my gamekeeper to poison the mountain,
to get rid of the poachers; so that, instead of shooting, which, as I
said before, was all you could do in the place, there I was, with three
brace of dogs, two guns, and powder enough to blow up a church, walking
a big dining-parlour, all alone by myself, as melancholy as may be.
‘You may judge how happy I was, looking out upon the bleak country-side,
with nothing to amuse me except when now and then the roof of some cabin
or other would turn upside down, like an umbrella, or watching an old
windmill that had gone clean mad, and went round at such a pace that
nobody dare go near it. All this was poor comfort. However, I got out of
temper with the place; and so I sat down and wrote a long advertisement
for the English papers, describing the Devil’s Grip as a little
terrestrial paradise, in the midst of picturesque scenery, a delightful
neighbourhood, and an Arcadian peasantry, the whole to be parted
with---a dead bargain--as the owner was about to leave the country. I
didn’t add that he had some thought of blowing his brains out with sheer
disgust of his family residence. I wound up the whole with a paragraph
to the effect that if not disposed of within the month, the proprietor
would break it up into small farms. I said this because I intended to
remain so long there; and, although I knew no purchaser would treat
after he saw the premises, yet still some one might be fool enough to
come over and look at them, and even that would help me to pass the
Christmas. My calculation turned out correct; for before a week was
over, a letter reached me, stating that a Mr. Green, of No. 196 High
Holborn, would pay me a visit as soon as the weather moderated and
permitted him to travel If he waits for that, thought I, he ‘ll not find
me here; and if it blows as hard for the next week, he ‘ll not find the
house either; so I mixed another tumbler of punch, and hummed myself to
sleep with the “Battle of Ross.”
‘It was about four or five evenings after I received this letter that
old Dan M’Cormick--a kind of butler I have, a handy fellow; he was a
steward for ten years in the Holyhead packet--burst into the room
about ten o’clock, when I was disputing with myself whether I took six
tumblers or seven--I said one, the decanter said the other.
‘“It’s blowing terrible, Mr. Bob,” said Dan.
‘“Let it blow! What else has it to do?”
‘“The trees is tumbling about as if they was drunk; there won’t be one
left before morn.”
‘“They’re right,” says I, “to leave that, for the soil was never kind
for planting.”
‘“Two of the chimneys is down,” says he.
‘“Devil mend them!” said I, “they were always smoking.”
‘“And the hall door,” cried he, “is blown flat into the hall.”
‘“It’s little I care,” said I; “if it couldn’t keep out the sheriff it
may let in the storm, if it pleases.”
‘“Murther! murther!” said he, wringing his hands, “I wish we were at
say! It’s a cruel thing to have one’s life perilled this way.”
‘While we were talking, a gossoon burst into the room with the news that
the Milford packet had just gone ashore somewhere below the Hook Tower,
adding, as is always the case on such occasions, that they were all
drowned.
‘I jumped up at this, put on my shooting-shoes, buttoned up my frieze
coat, and followed by Dan, took a short cut over the hills towards
Passage, where I now found the packet had been driven in. Before we had
gone half a mile I heard the voices of some country-people coming up the
road towards me; but it was so dark you couldn’t see your hand.
‘“Who’s there?” said I.
‘“Tim Molloy, your honour,” was the answer.
‘“What’s the matter, Tim?” said I. “Is there anything wrong?”
‘“Nothing, sir, glory be to God--it’s only the corpse of the gentleman
that was drowned there below.”
‘“I ain’t dead, I tell you; I’m only faint,” called out a shrill voice.
‘“He says he’s better,” said Tim; “and maybe it’s only the salt water
that’s in him; and, faix, when we found him, there was no more spark in
him than in a wet sod.”
‘Well, the short of it was, we brought him up to the house, rubbed him
with gunpowder before the fire, gave him about half a pint of burnt
spirits, and put him to bed, he being just able to tell me, as he was
dropping asleep, that he was my friend from No. 196 High Holborn.
‘The next morning I sent up Dan to ask how he was, and he came down with
the news that he was fast asleep. “The best thing he could do,” said
I; and I began to think over what a mighty load it would be upon my
conscience if the decent man had been drowned. “For, maybe, after all,”
thought I, “he is in earnest, maybe he wished to buy a beautiful place
like that I have described in the papers”; and so I began to relent, and
wonder with myself how I could make the country pleasant for him during
his stay. “It’ll not be a day or two at farthest, particularly after he
sees the place. Ay, there’s the rub--the poor devil will find out then
that I have been hoaxing him.” This kept fretting me all day; and I
was continually sending up word to know if he was awake, and the answer
always was--still sleeping.
‘Well, about four o’clock, as it was growing dark, Oakley of the Fifth
and two of his brother officers came bowling up to the door, on their
way to Carrick. Here was a piece of luck! So we got dinner ready for the
party, brought a good store of claret at one side of the fireplace, and
a plentiful stock of bog-fir at the other, and resolved to make a night
of it; and just as I was describing to my friends the arrival of my
guest above-stairs, who should enter the room but himself. He was a
round little fellow, about my size, with a short, quick, business-like
way about him. Indeed, he was a kind of a drysalter, or something of
that nature, in London, had made a large fortune, and wished to turn
country gentleman. I had only time to learn these few particulars, and
to inform him that he was at that moment in the mansion he had come to
visit, when dinner was announced.
‘Down we sat; and, ‘faith, a jollier party rarely met f together.
Poor Mr. Green knew but little of Ireland; but we certainly tried to
enlighten him; and he drank in wonders with his wine at such a rate that
by eleven o’clock he was carried to his room pretty much in the same
state as on his arrival the night before, the only difference being, it
was Sneyd, not saltwater, this time that filled him.
‘“I like the cockney,” said Oakley; “that fellow’s good fun. I say, Bob,
bring him over with you to-morrow to dinner. We halt at Carrick till the
detachment comes up.”
‘“Could you call it breakfast?” said I. “There’s a thought just strikes
me: we’ll be over in Carrick with you about six o’clock; well have our
breakfast, whatever you like to give us, and dine with you about eleven
or twelve afterwards.”
‘Oakley liked the project well; and before we parted the whole thing was
arranged for the next day.
‘Towards four o’clock in the afternoon of the following day Mr. Green
was informed by Daniel that, as we had made an engagement to take an
early breakfast some miles off, he ought to be up and stirring; at the
same time a pair of candles were brought into the room, hot water for
shaving, etc; and the astonished cockney, who looked at his watch,
perceived that it was but four.
‘“These are very early people,” thought he. “However, the habits of
the country must be complied with.” So saying, he proceeded with his
toilette, and at last reached the drawing-room, just as my drag dashed
up to the door--the lamps fixed and shining, and everything in readiness
for departure.
“‘We ‘ll have a little shooting, Mr. Green,” said I. “After breakfast,
we’ll see what my friend’s preserves offer. I suppose you’re a good
shot?”
“‘I can’t say much for my performance; but I’m passionately fond of it.”
‘“Well,” added I, “I believe I can answer for it, you ‘ll have a good
day here.”
‘So chatting, we rolled along, the darkness gradually thickening round
us, and the way becoming more gloomy and deserted.
‘“It’s strange,” says Mr. Green, after a while; “it’s strange, how very
dark it grows before sunrise; for I perceive it’s much blacker now than
when we set out.”
‘“Every climate has its peculiarities,” said I; “and now that we ‘re
used to this, we like it better than any other. But see there, yonder,
where you observe the light in the valley--that’s Carrick. My friend’s
house is a little at the side of the town. I hope you ‘ve a good
appetite for breakfast.”
‘“Trust me, I never felt so hungry in my life.”
‘“Ah, here they come!” said Oakley, as he stood with a lantern in his
hand at the barrack-gate; “here they are! Good-morning, Mr. Green. Bob,
how goes it? Heavenly morning!”
‘“Delightful indeed,” said poor Green, though evidently not knowing why.
‘“Come along, boys, now,” said Oakley; “we’ve a great deal before
us; though I am afraid, Mr. Green, you will think little of our Irish
sporting after your English preserves. However, I have kept a few brace
of pheasants, very much at your service, in a snug clover-field near the
house. So now to breakfast.”
‘There were about half a dozen of the Fifth at that time in the barrack,
who all entered heart and hand into the scheme, and with them we sat
down to a capital meal, which, if it was not for a big tea-pot and an
urn that figured in the middle of the table, might very well have been
called dinner. Poor Mr. Green, who for old prejudice’ sake began with
his congo and a muffin, soon afterwards, and by an easy transition,
glided into soup and fish, and went the pace with the rest of us. The
claret began to circulate briskly, and after a couple of hours the
whisky made its appearance. The Englishman, whose attention was
never suffered to flag with singular anecdotes of a country, whose
eccentricities he already began to appreciate, enjoyed himself to the
utmost. He laughed, he drank, he even proposed to sing; and with one
hand on Oakley’s shoulder, and the other on mine, he registered a vow to
purchase an estate and spend the rest of his days in Ireland. It was now
about eleven o’clock, when I proposed that we should have a couple of
hours at the woodcocks before luncheon.
‘“Ah, yes,” said Green, rubbing his hands, “let us not forget the
shooting. I ‘m passionately fond of sport.”
‘It took some time to caparison ourselves for the field. Shot-bags,
flasks, and powder-horns were distributed about, while three brace of
dogs caracoled round the room, and increased the uproar. We now sallied
forth. It was a dark and starless night--the wind still Mowing a
hurricane from the north-east, and not a thing to be seen two yards from
where you stood.
‘“Glorious weather!” said Oakley.
‘“A delicious morning!” cried another. “When those clouds blow over we
shall have no rain.”
‘“That’s a fine line of country, Mr. Green,” said I.
‘“Eh? what? a fine what? I can see nothing--it’s pitch dark.”
‘“Ah, I forgot,” said I. “How stupid we were, Oakley, not to remember
that Mr. Green was not used to our climate! We can see everything, you
know; but come along, you’ll get better by-and-by.”
‘With this we hurried him down a lane, through a hedge, and into a
ploughed field; while on every side of him pop, pop went the guns,
accompanied by exclamations of enthusiastic pleasure and delight.
‘“There they go--mark! That’s yours, Tom! Well done--cock pheasant* by
Jove! Here, Mr. Green! this way, Mr. Green! that dog is pointing--there,
there! don’t you see there?” said I, almost lifting the gun to his
shoulder, while poor Mr. Green, almost in a panic of excitement and
trepidation, pulled both triggers, and nearly fell back with the recoil.
[Illustration: 292]
‘“Splendid shot, begad!--killed both,” said Oakley. “Ah, Mr. Green, we
have no chance with you. Give him another gun at once.”
‘“I should like a little brandy,” said Mr. Green, “for my feet are wet.”
‘I gave him my flask, which he emptied at a pull; while, at the same
time, animated with fresh vigour, he tramped manfully forward, without
fear or dread. The firing still continued hotly around us; and as Mr.
Green discharged his piece whenever he was bid, we calculated that in
about an hour and a half he had fired above a hundred and fifty times.
Wearied and fatigued by his exertions, at length he sat down upon a
bank, while one of the gamekeepers covered the ground about him with
ducks, hens, and turkey-cooks, as the spoils of his exertions.
‘At Oakley’s proposal we now agreed to go back to luncheon, which I need
not tell you was a hot supper, followed by mulled claret and more punch.
Here the cockney came out still better than before. His character as a
sportsman raised him in his own esteem, and he sang “The Poacher” for
two hours, until he fell fast asleep on the carpet. He was then
conveyed to bed, where, as on the former day, he slept till late in the
afternoon.
‘Meanwhile, I had arranged another breakfast-party at Ross, where we
arrived about seven o’clock in the evening--and so on for the rest of
the week, occasionally varying the amusement by hunting, fishing, or
coursing.
‘At last poor Mr. Green, when called on one morning to dress, sent down
Dan with his compliments that he wished to speak to me. I went to him at
once, and found him sitting up in his bed.
‘“Ah, Mr. Manon,” said he, “this will never do; it’s a pleasant life, no
doubt, but I never could go On with it. Will you tell me one thing--do
you never see the sun here?”
‘“Oh, bless you! yes,” said I; “repeatedly. He was out for two hours on
last Patrick’s Day, and we have him now and then, promiscuously!”
‘“How very strange, how very remarkable,” said he, with a sigh, “that
we in England should know so little of all this! But, to tell you the
truth, I don’t think I ever could get used to Lapland--it’s Ireland I
mean; I beg your pardon for the mistake. And now, may I ask you another
question--Is this the way you always live?”
‘“Why, pretty much in this fashion; during the hazy season we go about
to one another’s houses, as you see; and one gets so accustomed to the
darkness----”
‘“Ah, now, don’t tell me that! I know I never could--it’s no use my
trying it. I ‘m used to the daylight; I have seen it, man and boy, for
about fifty years, and I never could grope about this way. Not but that
I am very grateful to you for all your hospitality; but I had rather go
home.”
‘“You’ll wait for morning, at all events,” said I; “you will not leave
the house in the dead of the night?”
‘“Oh, indeed, for the matter of that, it doesn’t signify much; night and
day is much about the same thing in this country.”
‘And so he grew obstinate, and notwithstanding all I could say, insisted
on his departure; and the same evening he sailed from the quay of
Waterford, wishing me every health and happiness, while he added, with a
voice of trembling earnestness--
‘“Yes, Mr. Mahon, pardon me if I am wrong, but I wish to heaven _you had
a little more light in Ireland!_“’
I am unable to say how far the good things of Major Mahon’s table
seasoned the story I have just related; but I confess I laughed at it
loud and long, a testimony on my part which delighted the Major’s heart;
for, like all anecdote-mongers, he was not indifferent to flattery.
‘The moral particularly pleases me,’ said I.
‘Ah, but the whole thing’s true as I am here. Whisht! there’s somebody
at the door. Come in, whoever you are.’
At these words the door cautiously opened, and a boy of about twelve
years of age entered. He carried a bundle under one arm, and held a
letter in his hand.
‘Oh, here it is,’ said Father Tom. ‘Come here, Patsey, my boy, here’s the
penny I promised you. There, now, don’t make a bad use of your money.’
The little fellow’s eyes brightened, and with a happy smile and a pull
of his forelock for a bow, left the room delighted.
‘Twelve miles--ay, and long miles too--in less than three hours! Not bad
travelling, Captain, for a bit of a gossoon like that.’
‘And for a penny!’ said I, almost startled with surprise.
‘To be sure,’ said the priest, as he cut the cord of the package, and
opened it on the table. ‘Here we are! as nate a jacket as ever I set
my eyes on, green and white, with a cap of the same.’ So saying, he
unfolded the racing-costume, which, by the desire of both parties, I was
obliged immediately to try on. ‘There, now,’ resumed he; ‘turn about; it
fits you like your skin.’
‘It looks devilish well, upon my word,’ said the Major. ‘Put on the cap;
and see too, he has sent a whip--that was very thoughtful of Dillon. But
what’s this letter here? for you, I think, Mr. Hinton.’
The letter was in a lady’s hand; I broke the seal and read as follows:--
‘Mount Brown, Wednesday Evening.’
‘Dear Sir,--My uncle Dillon requests that you will give us the pleasure
of your company to dinner to-morrow at six o’clock. I have taken the
liberty to tell him that as we are old acquaintances you will perhaps
kindly overlook his not having visited you to-day; and I shall feel
happy if, by accepting the invitation, you will sustain my credit on
this occasion.
‘He desires me to add that the racing-jacket, etc, are most perfectly at
your service, as well as any articles of horse-gear you may be in want
of.---Believe me, dear sir, truly yours, Louisa Bellow.’
A thrill of pleasure ran through me as I read these lines; and,
notwithstanding my efforts to conceal my emotion from my companions,
they but too plainly saw the excitement I felt.
‘Something agreeable there! You don’t look, Mr. Hinton, as if that were
a latitat or a bill of costs you were reading.’
‘Not exactly,’ said I, laughing. ‘It is an invitation to dinner from
Mount Brown--wherever that may be.’
‘The best house in the county,’ said the Major; ‘and a good fellow he
is, Hugh Dillon. When is it for?’
‘To-morrow at six.’
‘Well, if he has not asked me to meet you, I ‘ll invite myself, and we
‘ll go over together.’
‘Agreed,’ said I. ‘But how shall I send back the answer?’
The Major promised to send his servant over with the reply, which I
penned at once.
‘Just tell Hugh,’ said the Major, ‘that I’ll join you.’
I blushed, stammered, and looked confused. ‘I am not writing to Mr.
Dillon,’ said I, ‘for the invitation came through a lady of the family,
Miss Bellew--his niece, I believe.’
‘Whew!’ said the Major, with a long whistle. ‘Is it there we are! Oh, by
the powers, Mr. Hinton! that’s not fair--to come down here not only to
win our money in a steeplechase, but to want to carry off the belle of
our county besides. That ‘ll never do.’
‘She doesn’t belong to you at all,’ said Father Tom; ‘she is a
parishioner of mine, and so were her father and grandfather before her.
And moreover than that, she is the prettiest girl, and the best too, in
the county she lives in--and that’s no small praise, for it’s Galway I’m
talking of. And now here’s a bumper to her, and who ‘ll refuse it?’
‘Not I, certainly.’
‘Nor I,’ said the Major, as we drank to her health with all the honours.
‘Now for another jug,’ quoth the Major, as he moved towards the
fireplace in search of the kettle.
‘After that toast, not another drop,’ said I resolutely.
‘Well said!’ chimed in the priest; ‘may I never, if that wasn’t very
Irish!’
Firmly resisting all the Major’s solicitations to resume my place at
the table, I wished both my friends goodnight; and having accepted Bob
Mahon’s offer of a seat in his tax-cart to the race, I shook their hands
warmly, and took my leave.
CHAPTER XXV. THE STEEPLECHASE
I did not awake till past noon the next day, and had only completed
my dressing when Major Mahon made his appearance. Having pronounced my
costume accurate, and suggested that instead of carrying my racing-cap
in my hat I should tie the string round my neck and let it hang down in
front, he assisted me on with my greatcoat, in which, notwithstanding
that the season was summer, and the day a hot one, he buttoned me up to
the chin and down to the knees.
‘There, now,’ said he, ‘you look mighty like the thing. Where’s your
whip? We have no time to lose, so jump into the tax-cart, and let us be
off.’
As my reader may remember, the race-ground lay about a mile from the
town; but the road thither, unlike the peaceful quiet of the preceding
night, was now thronged with people on foot and horseback. Vehicles,
too, of every description were there--barouches and landaus,
hack-chaises, buggies, and jaunting-cars, whiskys, noddies, and, in
fact, every species of conveyance pronounced capable of rolling upon its
wheels, was put into requisition. Nor was the turn-out of cavalry of a
character less mixed. Horses of every shape and colour--some fat from
grass; others lean, like anatomical specimens; old and young; the
rich and the poor; the high-sheriff of the county, with his flashy
four-in-hand; the mendicant on his crutches--all pressed eagerly
forward. And as I surveyed the motley mass I felt what pleasure I could
take in the scene, were I not engaged as a principal performer.
On reaching the course we found it already occupied by numerous
brilliant equipages, and a strong cavalcade of horsemen; of these
the greater number were well mounted, and amused themselves and the
bystanders by leaping the various fences around--a species of pastime
which occasionally afforded food for laughter, many a soiled coat and
broken hat attesting the colour and consistence of the clayey ground.
There were also refreshment-booths, stalls for gaming on a humble scale,
tables laid out with beer, hard eggs, and gingerbread--in a word, all
the ordinary and extraordinary preparations which accompany any great
assemblage of people whose object is amusement.
A temporary railing of wood, rudely and hastily put together, inclosed
a little space reserved as a weighing-stand; here the stewards of the
course were assembled, along with ‘the dons’ of the country; and into
this privileged sanctum was I introduced by the Major, in due form. All
eyes were turned on me as I entered; and whether from the guardianship
of him who acted as my chaperon, or that the costume of my coat and
overalls had propitiated their favour, I cannot say; but somehow I
felt that there was more courtesy in their looks, and an air of greater
civility in their bearing, than I had remarked the preceding day at the
Town-hall. True, these were, for the most part, men of better stamp--the
real gentry of the country--who, devotedly attached to field-sports, had
come, not as betting characters, but to witness a race. Several of them
took off their hats as I approached, and saluted me with politeness.
While returning their courtesy, I felt my arm gently touched, and on
looking around perceived Mr. Dillon, of Mount Brown, who, with a look
of most cordial greeting, and an outstretched hand, presented himself
before me.
‘You ‘ll dine with us, Mr. Hinton, I hope?’ said he. ‘No apology, pray.
You shall not lose the hall, for my girls insist on going to it, so
that we can all come in together. There, now, that is settled. Will
you permit me to introduce you to a few of my friends? Here’s Mr. Barry
Connolly wishes much to know you. You ‘ll pardon me, Mr. Hinton, but
your name is so familiar to me through my niece, I forget that we are
not old acquaintances.’
So saying, the little man took my arm and led me about through the
crowd, introducing me right and left. Of the names, the rank, and the
residences of my new friends, I knew as much as I did of the domestic
arrangements of the King of Congo; but one thing I can vouch for--more
unbounded civility and hospitable attention never did man receive. One
gentleman begged me to spend a few days with him at his shooting-lodge
in the mountains--another wanted to make up a coursing-party for me--a
third volunteered to mount me if I’d come down in the hunting season;
one and all gave me most positive assurance that if I remained in the
country I should neither lack bed nor board for many a day to come.
But a few days before, and in my ignorance I had set down this same
class as rude, underbred, and uncivilised; and had I left the country on
the preceding evening, I should have carried away my prejudices with
me. The bare imitation of his better that the squireen presents was the
source of this blunder; the spurious currency had, by its false glitter,
deteriorated the sterling coin in my esteem; but now I could detect the
counterfeit from the genuine metal.
‘The ladies are on this side,’ said Mr. Dillon. ‘Shall we make our bow
to them?’
‘You’ll not have time, Dillon,’ said a friend who overheard his remark:
‘here come the horses.’
As he spoke, a distant cheer rose from the bottom of the hill, which,
gradually taken up by those nearer, grew louder and louder, till it
filled the very air.
‘What is it?’ said I eagerly.
‘It’s Jug of Punch,’ said a person beside me. ‘The mare was bred in the
neighbourhood, and excites a great interest among the country-people.’
The crowd now fell back rapidly, and Mr. Burke, seated in a high tandem,
dashed up to the weighing-stand, and, giving the reins to his servant,
sprang to the ground. His costume was a loose coat of coarse drab cloth,
beset on every side by pockets of various shapes and dimensions; long
gaiters of the same material incased his legs, and the memorable white
hat, set most rakishly on his head, completed his equipment.
Scarcely had he put foot to the ground when he was surrounded by a
number of his obsequious followers; but, paying little or no attention
to their proffered civilities, he brushed rudely through them, and
walked straight up to where I was standing. There was an air of
swaggering insolence in his manner which could not be mistaken; and I
could mark that, in the sidelong glance he threw about him, he intended
that our colloquy should be for the public ear. Nodding familiarly,
while he touched his hat with one finger, he addressed me.
‘Good-morning, sir; I am happy to have met you so soon. There is a
report that we are to have no race: may I ask you if there be any ground
for it?’
‘Not so far as I am concerned,’ replied I, in a tone of quiet
indifference.
‘At least,’ resumed he, ‘there would seem some colour for the rumour.
Your horse is not here--I understand he has not left the stable--and
your groom is among the crowd below. I only asked the question, as it
affects my betting-book; there are doubtless here many gentlemen among
your friends who would wish to back you.’
This was said with an air of sneering mockery so palpable as to call
forth an approving titter from the throng of satellites at his back.
Without deigning any reply to his observation, I whispered a few words
to the Major, who at once, taking a horse from a farmer, threw himself
into the saddle and cantered off to the mill.
‘In fifteen minutes the time will be up,’ said Mr. Burke, producing his
watch. ‘Isn’t that so, Dillon? You are the judge here.’
‘Perfectly correct,’ replied the little man, with a hasty confused
manner that showed me in what awe he stood of his redoubted relative.
‘Then in that time I shall call on you to give the word to start; for
I believe the conditions require me to ride over the course, with or
without a competitor.’
So saying, Mr Burke proceeded leisurely to unbutton his greatcoat,
which, with the assistance of his friends, he drew off. Two sedulous
familiars were meanwhile unbuttoning his gaiters, and in a few seconds
he stood forth what even my most prejudiced judgment could not deny--the
very beau-ideal of a gentleman-rider. His jacket, of black and yellow,
bore the stains of more than one race; but his whole carriage, not less
than his costume, looked like one who felt every inch the jockey. His
mare was led within the ropes to be saddled--a proceeding conducted
under his own eye, and every step of which he watched with critical
nicety. This done, he sat down upon a bench, and, with watch in hand,
seemed to count the minutes as they flew past.
‘Here we are! here we are! all right, Hinton!’ shouted the Major, as
he galloped up the hill. ‘Jump into the scale, my lad; your saddle is
beside you. Don’t lose a moment.’
‘Yes, off with your coat,’ said another, ‘and jump in!’
Divesting myself of my outer garments with a speed not second to that
of Mr. Burke, I took my saddle under my arm, and seated myself in the
scale. The groom fortunately had left nothing undone, and my saddle
being leaded to the required weight, the operation took not a minute.
‘Saddle now as quickly as you can,’ whispered Dillon; ‘for Burke, being
overweight, won’t get into the scale.’
While he was yet speaking, the gallant grey was led in, covered with
clothing from head to tail.
‘All was quite right,’ said Mahon, in a low whisper--‘your horse won’t
bear a crowd, and the groom kept him stabled to the last moment. You are
in luck besides,’ continued he: ‘they say he is in a good temper this
morning--and, indeed, he walked up from the mill as gently as a lamb.’
‘Mount, gentlemen!’ cried Mr. Dillon, as, with watch in hand, he
ascended a little platform in front of the weighing-stand.
I had but time to throw one glance at my horse when the Major gave me
his hand to lift me into the saddle.
‘After you, sir,’ said Mr. Burke, with a mock politeness, as he drew
back to permit me to pass out first.
I touched my horse gently with the snaffle, but he stood stock-still; I
essayed again, but with no better success. The place was too crowded to
permit of any attempt to bully him, so I once more tried gentle
means. It was of no use--he stood rooted to the ground. Before I could
determine what next to do, Mahon sprang forward and took him by
the head, when the animal walked quietly forward without a show of
restiveness.
‘He’s a droll devil,’ said the groom, ‘and in one of his odd humours
this morning, for that’s what I never saw him do before.’
I could see as I passed out that this little scene, short as it was, had
not impressed the bystanders with any exalted notion of my horsemanship;
for although there was nothing actually to condemn, my first step did
not seem to augur well. Having led me forth before the stand, the
Major pointed with his finger to the line of country before me, and was
repeating the priest’s injunctions, when Mr. Burke rode up to my side,
and, with a smile of very peculiar meaning, said--
‘Are you ready _now_, sir?’
I nodded assent. The Major let go the bridle.
‘We are all ready, Dillon!’ cried Burke, turning in his saddle.
‘All ready!’ repeated Dillon; ‘then away!’
As he spoke, the hell rang, and off we went.
For about thirty yards we cantered side by side--the grey horse keeping
stroke with the other, and not betraying the slightest evidence of bad
temper. Whatever my own surprise, the amazement of Burke was beyond all
bounds. He turned completely round in his saddle to look, and I could
see, in the workings of his features, the distrustful expression of
one who suspected he had been duped. Meanwhile, the cheers of the vast
multitude pealed high on every side; and, as the thought flashed across
me that I might still acquit myself with credit, my courage rose, and I
gripped my saddle with double energy.
At the foot of the slope there was, as I have already mentioned, a
small fence; towards this we were now approaching at the easy sling of
a hand-gallop, when suddenly Burke’s features--which I watched from
time to time with intense anxiety--changed their expression of doubt and
suspicion for a look of triumphant malice. Putting spurs to his horse,
he sprang a couple of lengths in advance, and rode madly at the fence;
the grey stretched out to follow, and already was I preparing for the
leap, when Burke, who had now reached the fence, suddenly swerved his
horse round, and, affecting to baulk, cantered back towards the hill.
The manoeuvre was perfectly successful. My horse, who up to that moment
was going on well, threw his forelegs far out, and came to a dead stop.
In an instant the trick was palpable to my senses; and, in the heat of
my passion, I dashed in both spurs, and endeavoured to lift him by the
rein. Scarcely had I done so, when, as if the very ground beneath had
jerked us upwards, he sprang into the air, dashing his head forward
between the forelegs, and throwing up his haunches behind, till I
thought we should come clean over in the somersault. I kept my seat,
however; and thinking that boldness alone could do at such a moment, I
only waited till he reached the ground, when I again drove the spurs up
to the rowels in his flanks. With a snort of passion he bounded madly
up, and pawing the air for some moments with his forelegs, lit upon the
earth, panting with rage, and trembling in every limb.
[Illustration: 305]
The shouts which now filled my ears seemed but like mockery and
derision; and stung almost to madness, I fixed myself in my seat, pulled
my cap upon my brows, and with clenched teeth gathered up the reins to
renew the conflict. There was a pause now for a few seconds; both horse
and man seemed to feel that there was a deadly strife before them, and
each seemed to collect his energy for the blow. The moment came; and
driving in the spurs with all my force, I struck him with the whip
between the ears. With something like a yell, the savage animal sprang
into the air, writhing his body like a fish. Bound after bound he made,
as though goaded on to madness; and, at length, after several fruitless
efforts to unseat me, he dashed straight upwards, struck out with his
forelegs, poised for a second or two, and then with a crash fell back
upon me, rolling me to the ground, bruised, stunned, and senseless.
How long this state lasted I cannot tell; but when half consciousness
returned to me, I found myself standing in the field, my head reeling
with the shock, my clothes torn and ragged. My horse was standing beside
me, with some one at his head; while another, whose voice I thought I
could recognise, called out--
‘Get up, man, get up! you ‘ll do the thing well yet. There, don’t lose
time.’
‘No, no,’ said another voice, ‘it’s a shame; the poor fellow is half
killed already--and there, don’t you see Burke’s at the second fence?’
Thus much I heard, amid the confusion around me; but more I know not.
The next moment I was in the saddle, with only sense enough left to
feel reckless to desperation. I cried out to leave the way, and turned
towards the fence.
A tremendous cut of a whip fell upon the horse’s quarter from some one
behind, and, like a shell from a mortar, he leaped wildly out. With one
fly he cleared the fence, dashed across the field, and, before I was
firm in my seat, was over the second ditch. Burke had barely time to
look round him ere I had passed. He knew that the horse was away with
me, but he also knew his bottom, and that, if I could but keep my
saddle, the chances were now in my favour.
Then commenced a terrible struggle. In advance of him, about four
lengths, I took everything before me, my horse flying straight as an
arrow. I dared not turn my head, but I could mark that Burke was making
every effort to get before me. We were now approaching a tall hedge,
beyond which lay the deep ground of which the priest had already spoken.
So long as the fences presented nothing of height, the tremendous pace
I was going was all in my favour; but now there was fully five feet of a
hedge standing before me. Unable to collect himself, my horse came
with his full force against it, and chesting the tangled branches, fell
head-foremost into the field. Springing to my legs unhurt, I lifted him
at once; but ere I could remount, Burke came bounding over the hedge,
and lit safely beside me. With a grin of malice he turned one look
towards me, and dashed on.
For some seconds my horse was so stunned he could scarcely move, and as
I pressed him forward the heavy action of his shoulder and his drooping
head almost filled me with despair. By degrees, however, he warmed
up and got into his stride. Before me, and nearly a hundred yards
in advance, rode Burke, still keeping up his pace, but skirting the
headlands to my right. I saw now the force of the priest’s remark, that
were I to take a straight line through the deep ground the race was
still in my favour. But dare I do so with a horse so dead beat as mine
was? The thought was quick as lightning; it was my only chance to win,
and I resolved to take it. Plunging into the soft and marshy ground
before me, I fixed my eye upon the blue flag which marked the course.
At this moment Burke turned and saw me, and I could perceive that he
immediately slackened his pace. Yes, thought I, he thinks I am pounded;
but it is not come to that yet. In fact, my horse was improving at every
stride, and although the ground was trying, his breeding began to tell,
and I could feel that he had plenty of running still in him. Affecting,
however, to lift him at every stroke, and seeming to labour to help him
through, I induced Burke to hold in, until I gradually crept up to the
fence before he was within several lengths of it. The grey no sooner
caught sight of the wall than he pricked up his ears and rushed towards
it; with a vigorous lift I popped him over, without touching a stone.
Burke followed in splendid style, and in an instant was alongside of me.
Now began the race in right earnest. The cunning of his craft could
avail him little here, except as regarded the superior management of his
own horse; so Burke, abandoning every ruse, rode manfully on. As for
me, my courage rose at every moment; and so far from feeling any fear,
I only wished that the fences were larger; and like a gambler who would
ruin his adversary at one throw, I would have taken a precipice if he
pledged himself to follow. For some fields we rode within a few yards of
each other, side by side, each man lifting his horse at the same moment
to his leap, and alighting with the same shock beyond it. Already our
heads were turned homewards, and I could mark on the distant hill the
far-off crowds whose echoing shouts came floating towards us. But one
fence of any consequence remained; that was the large gripe that formed
the last of the race. We had cleared a low stone wall, and now entered
the field that led to the great leap. It was evident that Burke’s horse,
both from being spared the shocks that mine had met with, and from
his better riding, was the fresher of the two; we had neither of us,
however, much to boast of on that score, and perhaps at a calmer moment
would have little fancied facing such a leap as that before us. It
was evident that the first over must win; and as each man measured
the other’s stride, the intense anxiety of the moment nearly rose to
madness.
From the instant of entering the field I had marked out with my eye
where I meant to take the leap. Burke had evidently done this also; and
we now slightly diverged, each to his allotted spot. The pace was awful.
All thought of danger lost, or forgotten, we came nearer and nearer with
knitted brow and clenched lip--I, the first. Already I was on the side;
with a loud cry and a cut of my whip I rose my horse to it. The noble
beast sprang forward, but his strength was spent, and he fell downwards
on his head. Recovering him without losing my seat, I scrambled up the
opposite bank and looked round. Burke, who had pressed the pace so hotly
before, had only done so to blow my horse and break him down at his
leap; and I saw him now approaching the fence with his mare fully in
hand, and her haunches well under her. Unable to move forward, save at a
walk, I turned in my saddle to watch him. He came boldly to the brink
of the fence; his hand was up prepared to strike; already the mare was
collecting herself for the effort, when from the bottom of the gripe a
figure sprang wildly up, and as the horse rose into the air, he jumped
at the bridle, pulling down both the horse and the rider with a crash
upon him, a loud cry of agony rising amid the struggle.
As they disappeared from my sight I felt like one in a trance. All
thoughts, however, were lost in the desire to win; and collecting my
energies for a last struggle, I lifted the gallant grey with both hands,
and by dint of spurring and shaking, pressed him to a canter, and rode
in, the winner, amid the deafening cheers and cries of thousands.
‘Keep back! keep back!’ cried Mahon, restraining with his whip the crowd
that bore down upon me. ‘Hinton, take care that no one touches your
horse; ride inside, take off your saddle and get into the scale.’
Moving onwards like one in a dream, I mechanically obeyed the direction,
while the cries and shouts around me grew each moment louder and wilder.
‘Here he comes! here he comes!’ shouted several voices; and Burke
galloped up, and without drawing rein rode into the weighing-stand.
‘Foul play!’ roared he in a tone hoarse with passion. ‘I protest against
the race! Holloa, sir!’ he shouted, turning towards me.
‘There, there!’ said Mahon, as he hurried me along towards the scale,
‘you have nothing to do with him.’ And at the same moment a number of
others pressed eagerly forward to shake my hand and wish me joy.
‘Look here, Dillon,’ cried the Major, ‘mark the weight--twelve stone
two, and two pounds over, if he wanted it. There, now,’ whispered he,
in a voice which though not meant for my hearing I could distinctly
catch--‘there, now, Dillon, take him into your carriage and get him off
the ground as fast as you can.’
Just at this instant Burke, who had been talking with loud voice and
violent gesticulation, burst through the crowd, and stood before us.
‘Do you say, Dillon, that I have lost this race?’
‘Yes, yes, to be sure!’ cried out full twenty voices.
‘My question was not addressed to you, sirs,’ said he, boiling with
passion; ‘I ask the judge of this course, have I lost?’
‘My dear Ulick----’ said Dillon, in a voice scarce audible from
agitation.
‘No cursed palaver with me,’ said he, interrupting. ‘Lost or won,
sir--one word.’
‘Lost, of course,’ replied Dillon, with more of firmness than I believed
him capable.
‘Well, sir,’ said Burke, as he turned towards me, his teeth clenched
with passion, ‘it may be some alloy to your triumph to know that your
accomplice has smashed his thigh-bone in your service; and yet I can
tell you you have not come to the end of this matter.’
Before I could reply, Burke’s friends tore him from the spot and hurried
him to a carriage; while I, still more than ever puzzled by the words
I had heard, looked from one to the other of those around for an
explanation.
‘Never mind, Hinton,’ said Mahon, as, half breathless with running, he
rushed up and seized me by the hand. ‘The poor fellow was discharging a
double debt in his own rude way--gratitude on your score, vengeance on
his own.’
[Illustration: 312]
‘Tally-ho, tally-ho!--hark, there--stole away!’ shouted a wild cry from
without, and at the same instant four countrymen came forward, carrying
a door between them, on which was stretched the pale and mangled figure
of Tipperary Joe. ‘A drink of water--spirits--tay--anything, for the
love of the Virgin! I’m famished, and I want to drink Captain Phil’s
health. Ah, darling!’ said he, as he turned his filmy eyes up towards
me, ‘didn’t I do it beautifully; didn’t I pay him off for this?’ With
these words he pointed to a blue welt that stretched across his face,
from the mouth to the ear. ‘He gave me that yesterday for saying long
life and success to you!’
‘Oh! this is too horrible,’ said I, gasping for breath. ‘My poor fellow!
and I who had treated you so harshly!’ I took his hand in mine, but it
was cold and clammy; his features were sunken too--he had fainted.
‘Come, Hinton,’ said the Major, ‘we can do no good here; let us move
down to the inn at once, and see after this poor boy.’
‘You are coming with us, Mr. Hinton?’ cried Dillon.
‘Not now, not now,’ said I, while my throat was swelling with repressed
emotion. Without suffering me to say more, Mahon almost lifted me into
the tax-cart, and putting his horse to the gallop, dashed towards the
town, the cheers of the people following us as we went; for, to their
wild sense of justice, Joe was a genuine martyr, and I shared in the
glory of his self-devotion.
The whole way towards Loughrea, Mahon continued to talk; but not a
word could I catch. My thoughts were fixed on the poor fellow who had
suffered for my sake; and I would have given all I possessed in the
world to have lost the race, and seen him safe and sound before me.
‘There, there!’ said the Major, as he shook me by the arm; ‘don’t take
it to heart this way. You know little of Ireland, that’s plain; that
poor fellow will be prouder for the feeling you have shown towards him
this night than many a king upon his throne. To have served a gentleman,
to have put him under an obligation--_that_ has a charm you can’t
estimate the extent of. Beware, only beware of one thing--do not by any
offer of money destroy the illusion; do what you like for him, but take
care of that.’
We now reached the little inn; and Mahon--for I was incapable of all
thought or exertion--got a room in readiness for Joe, and summoning the
doctor of the place, provided everything for his care and accommodation.
‘Now, Hinton,’ said he, as he burst into my room, ‘all’s right. Joe is
comfortable in bed; the fracture turns out not to be a bad one. So rouse
yourself, for Dillon’s carriage with all its ladies is waiting these ten
minutes.’
‘No, no!’ cried I; ‘I can’t go to this dinner-party! I’ll not quit----’
‘Nonsense, man!’ said he, interrupting me; ‘you can only do harm here;
the doctor says he must be left quite quiet» and alone. Besides, Dillon
has behaved so well to-day--so stoutly for _him_, that you mustn’t
forget it. There, now, where are your clothes? I’ll pack them for you.’
I started up to obey him, but a giddiness came over me, and I sank into
my chair, weak and sick.
‘This will never do,’ said Mahon; ‘I had better tell them I’ll drive you
over myself. And now, just lie down for an hour or two, and keep quiet.’
This advice I felt was good; and thanking my kind friend with a squeeze
of the hand, for I could not speak, I threw myself upon my bed, and
strange enough, while such contending emotions disturbed my brain, fell
asleep almost immediately.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE DINNER-PARTY AT MOUNT BROWN
I awoke refreshed after half-an-hour’s doze, and then every circumstance
of the whole day was clear and palpable before me. I remembered each
minute particular, and could bring to my mind all the details of the
race itself, notwithstanding the excitement they had passed in, and the
rapidity with which they succeeded one another.
My first thought was to visit poor Joe; and creeping stealthily to his
room, I opened the door. The poor fellow was fast asleep. His features
had already become coloured with fever, and a red hectic spot on either
cheek told that the work of mischief had begun; yet still his sleep was
tranquil, and a half smile curled; his bloodless lips. On his bed
his old hunting-cap was placed, a bow of white and green ribbons--the
colours I wore--fastened gaudily in the front; upon this, doubtless,
he had been gazing to the last moment of his waking. I now stole
noiselessly back, and began a letter to O’Grady, whose anxiety as to the
result would, I knew, be considerable.
It was not without pride, I confess, that I narrated the events of the
day; yet when I came to that part of my letter in which Joe was to be
mentioned, I could not avoid a sense of shame in acknowledging the cruel
contrast between _my_ conduct and _his_ gratitude. I did not attempt
to theorise upon what he had done, for I felt that O’Grady’s better
knowledge of his countrymen would teach him to sound the depths of a
motive, the surface of which I could but skim. I told him frankly that
the more I saw of Ireland the less I found I knew about it; so much
of sterling good seemed blended with unsettled notions and unfixed
opinions; such warmth of heart, such frank cordiality, with such traits
of suspicion and distrust, that I could make nothing of them. Either,
thought I, these people are born to present the anomaly of all that is
most opposite and contradictory in human nature, or else the fairest
gifts that ever graced manhood have been perverted and abused by
mismanagement and misguidance.
I had just finished my letter when Bob Mahon drove up, his honest face
radiant with smiles and good-humour.
‘Well, Hinton,’ cried he, ‘the whole thing is properly settled. The
money is paid over; and if you are writing to O’Grady, you may mention
that he can draw on the Limerick bank, at sight if he pleases. There’s
time enough, however, for all this; so get up beside me. We’ve only half
an hour to do our five miles, and dress for dinner.’
I took my place beside the Major; and as we flew fast through the air,
the cool breeze and his enlivening conversation rallied and refreshed
me. Such was our pace that we had ten minutes to spare, as we entered a
dark avenue of tall beech-trees, and a few seconds after arrived at the
door of a large old-fashioned-looking manor-house, on the steps of which
stood Hugh Dillon himself, in all the plenitude of a white waistcoat
and black-silk tights. While he hurried me to a dressing-room, he
overwhelmed me with felicitations on the result of the day.
‘You’ll think it strange, Mr. Hinton,’ said he, ‘that I should
congratulate you, knowing that Mr. Burke is a kind of relation of mine;
but I have heard so much of your kindness to my niece Louisa, that I
cannot but rejoice in your success.’
‘I should rather,’ said I, ‘for many reasons, had it been more
legitimately obtained; and, indeed, were I not acting for another, I
doubt how far I should feel justified in considering myself a winner.’
‘My dear sir,’ interrupted Dillon, ‘the laws of racing are imperative in
the matter; besides, had you waived your right, all who backed you must
have lost their money.’
‘For that matter,’ said I, laughing, ‘the number of my supporters was
tolerably limited.’
‘No matter for that; and even if you had not a single bet upon you,
Ulick’s conduct, in the beginning, deserved little favour at your
hands.’
‘I confess,’ said I, ‘that there you have touched on the saving clause
to my feeling of shame. Had Mr. Burke conducted himself in a different
spirit towards my friend and myself, I should feel sorely puzzled this
minute.’
‘Quite right, quite right,’ said Dillon; ‘and now try if you can’t make
as much haste with your toilette as you did over the clover-field.’
Within a quarter of an hour I made my appearance in the drawing-room,
now crowded with company, the faces of many among whom I remembered
having seen in the morning. Mr. Dillon was a widower, but his
daughters--three fine, tall, handsome-looking girls--did the honours.
While I was making my bows to them, Miss Bellew came forward, and with
an eye bright with pleasure held out her hand towards me.
‘I told you, Mr. Hinton, we should meet in the west. Have I been as good
a prophetess in saying that you would like it?’
‘If it afforded me but this one minute,’ said I, in a half-whisper.
‘Dinner!’ said the servant, and at the same moment that scene of
pleasant confusion ensued that preludes the formal descent of a party to
the dining-room.
The host had gracefully tucked a large lady under his arm, beside whose
towering proportions he looked pretty much like what architects call ‘a
lean-to,’ superadded to a great building. He turned his eye towards me
to go and do likewise, with a significant glance at a heaving mass of
bugles and ostrich feathers that sat panting on a sofa. I parried the
stroke, however, by drawing Miss Bellow’s arm within mine, while I
resigned the post of honour to my little friend the Major.
The dinner passed off like all other dinners. There was the same routine
of eating and drinking, and pretty much the same ritual of table-talk.
As a kind of commentary on the superiority of natural gifts over the
affected and imitated graces of society, I could not help remarking that
those things which figured on the table of homely origin were actually
luxurious, while the exotic resources of the cookery were, in every
instance, miserable failures. Thus the fish was excellent, and the
mutton perfect, while the _fricandeau_ was atrocious, and the _petits
pâtés_ execrable.
Should my taste be criticised, that with a lovely girl beside me, for
whom I already felt a strong attachment, I could thus set myself to
criticise the cookery, in lieu of any other more agreeable occupation,
let my apology be, that my reflection was an apropos, called forth by
comparing Louisa Bellew with her cousins the Dillons. I have said they
were handsome girls; they were more--they were beautiful. They had
all that fine pencilling of the eyebrow, that deep, square orbit, so
characteristically Irish, which gives an expression to the eye, whatever
be its colour, of inexpressible softness; their voices too, albeit the
accent was provincial, were soft and musical, and their manners quiet
and ladylike--yet, somehow, they stood immeasurably apart from her.
I have already ventured on one illustration from the cookery, may I take
another from the cellar? How often in wines of the same vintage, of even
the same cask, do we find one bottle whose bouquet is more aromatic,
whose flavour is richer, whose colour is more purely brilliant!
There seems to be no reason why this should be so, nor is the secret
appreciable to our senses; however, the fact is incontestable. So among
women. You meet some half-dozen in an evening party, equally beautiful,
equally lovely; yet will there be found one among the number towards
whom, without any assignable cause, more eyes are turned, and more looks
bent; around whose chair more men are found to linger, and in whose
slightest word some cunning charm seems ever mingled. Why is this so?
I confess I cannot tell you; but trust me for the fact. If, however, it
will satisfy you that I adduce an illustration--Louisa Bellew was one of
these. With all the advantages of a cultivated mind, she possessed that
fearlessness that only girls really innocent of worldly trickery and
deceit ever have; and thus, while her conversation ranged far beyond the
limits the cold ordeal of fashion would prescribe to a London beauty,
the artless enthusiasm of her manner was absolutely captivating.
In Dublin the most marked feature about her was an air of lofty pride
and hauteur, by which, in the mixed society of Rooney’s house, was she
alone enabled to repel the obtrusive and impertinent attentions it was
the habit of the place to practise. Surrounded by those who resorted
there for a lounge, it was a matter of no common difficulty for her, a
young and timid girl, to assert her own position, and exact the respect
that was her due. Here, however, in her uncle’s house, it was quite
different. Relieved from all performance of a part, she was natural,
graceful, and easy; and her spirits, untrammelled by the dread of
misconstruction, took their own free and happy flight without fear and
without reproach.
When we returned to the drawing-room, seated beside her, I entered into
an explanation of all my proceedings since my arrival in the country,
and had the satisfaction to perceive that not only did she approve of
everything I had done, but, assuming a warmer interest than I could
credit in my fortunes, she counselled me respecting the future.
Supposing that my success might induce me to further trials of my
horseman ship, she cautioned me about being drawn into any matches or
wagers.
‘My cousin Ulick,’ said she, ‘is one of those who rarely let a prey
escape them. I speak frankly to you, for I know I may do so; therefore,
I would beseech you to take care of him, and, above all things, do not
come into collision with him. I have told you, Mr. Hinton, that I wish
you to know my father. For this object, it is essential you should
have no misunderstanding with my cousin; for although his whole conduct
through life has been such as to grieve and afflict him, yet the feeling
for his only sister’s child has sustained him against all the
rumours and reports that have reached him, and even against his own
convictions.’
‘You have, indeed,’ said I, ‘suggested a strong reason for keeping
well with your cousin. My heart is not only bent on being known to your
father, but, if I dare hope it, on being liked by him also.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said she quickly, blushing while she spoke, ‘I am sure he’ll
like you--and I know you’ll like him. Our house, perhaps I should tell
you, is not a gay one. We lead a secluded and retired life; and this
has had its effect upon my poor father, giving a semblance of
discontent--only a semblance, though--to a nature mild, manly, and
benevolent.’
She paused an instant, and, as if fearing that she had been led away
to speak of things she should not have touched upon, added with a more
lively tone--
‘Still, we may contrive to amuse you. You shall have plenty of fishing
and coursing, the best shooting in the west, and, as for scenery, I’ll
answer for it you are not disappointed.’
While we chatted thus, the time rolled on, and at last the clock on the
mantel-piece apprised us that it was time to set out for the ball. This,
as it may be believed, was anything but a promise of pleasure to me.
With Louisa Bellew beside me, talking in a tone of confidential intimacy
she had never ventured on before, I would have given worlds to have
remained where I was. However, the thing was impossible; ‘the ball! the
ball!’ passed from lip to lip, and already the carriages were assembled
before the door, and cloaks, hoods, and mantles were distributed on all
sides.
Resolving, at all events, to secure Miss Bellew as my fellow-traveller,
I took her arm to lead her downstairs.
‘Holloa, Hinton!’ cried the Major, ‘you ‘re coming with me, ain’t you?’
I got up a tremendous fit of coughing, as I stammered out an apology
about night-air, etc.
‘Ah, true, my poor fellow,’ said the simple-hearted Bob; ‘you must take
care of yourself--this has been a severe day’s work for you.’
‘With such a heavy cold,’ said Louisa, laughing, as her bright eyes
sparkled with fun, ‘perhaps you ‘ll take a seat in our carriage.’
I pressed her arm gently and murmured my assent, assisted her in, and
placed myself beside her.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE RACE BALL
Fast as had been the pace in the Major’s tax-cart, it seemed to me as
though the miles flew much more quickly by as I returned to the town.
How, indeed, they passed I cannot well say; but, from the instant that
I quitted Mr. Dillon’s house to that of my arrival in Loughrea, there
seemed to be but one brief, delightful moment. I have already said that
Miss Bellew’s manner was quite changed; and, as I assisted her from the
carriage, I could not but mark the flashing brilliancy of her eye and
the sparkling animation of her features, lending, as they did, an added
loveliness to her beauty.
‘Am I to dance with you, Mr. Hinton?’ said she laughingly, as I led
her up the stairs. ‘If so, pray be civil enough to ask me at
once--otherwise, I must accept the first partner that offers himself.’
‘How very stupid I have been! Will you, pray, let me have the honour?’
‘Yes, yes--you shall have the honour; but, now that I think of it, you
mustn’t ask me a second time. We countryfolk are very prudish about
these things; and, as you are the lion of the party, I should get into a
sad scrape were I to appear to monopolise you.’
‘But you surely will have compassion on me,’ said I, in a tone of
affected bashfulness. ‘You know I am a stranger here--neither known to
nor by any one save you.’
‘_Ah_, _trêve de modestie!_’ said she coquettishly. ‘My cousins will be
quite delighted; and indeed, you owe them some _amende_ already.’
‘As how?’ said I. ‘What have I done?’
‘Rather, what have you left undone? I’ll tell you. You have not come
to the ball in your fine uniform, with your aiguillette and your showy
feathers, and all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of your dignity as
aide-de-camp. Learn, that in the west we love the infantry, doat on
the dragoons, but we adore the staff. Now, a child would find it as
difficult to recognise a plump gentleman without a star on his breast as
a king, as we western ladies would to believe in the military features
of a person habited in quiet black. You should, at least, have some
symbol of your calling. A little bit of moustache like a Frenchman, a
foreign order at your button-hole, your arm in a sling--from a wound,
as it were--even a pair of brass spurs would redeem you. Poor Mary
here won’t believe that you wear a great sword, and are the most
warlike-looking person imaginable on occasions.’
‘Dearest Louisa, how silly you are!’ said her cousin, blushing deeply.
‘Pray, Mr. Hinton, what do you think of the rooms?’
This question happily recalled me to myself, for up to that very moment,
forgetful of everything save my fair companion, I had not noticed our
entrance into the ballroom, around which we were promenading with alow
steps. I now looked up, and discovered that we were in the Town-hall,
the great room of which building was generally reserved for occasions
like the present. Nothing could be more simple than the decorations
of the apartment. The walls, which were whitewashed, were tastefully
ornamented with strings and wreaths of flowers suspended between the
iron chandeliers, while over the chimney-piece were displayed the
colours of the marching regiment then quartered in the town. Indeed, to
do them justice, the garrison were the main contributors to the pleasure
of the evening. By _them_ were the garlands so gracefully disposed;
by _them_ were the rat-holes and other dangerous crevices in the floor
caulked with oakum; _their_ band was now blowing ‘God Save the King’ and
‘Rule Britannia’ alternately for the last hour, and _their_ officers, in
all the splendour of scarlet, were parading the room, breaking the men’s
hearts with envy and the women’s with admiration.
O’Grady was quite right--it is worth while being a soldier in Ireland;
and, if such be the case in the capital, how much more true is it in
Connaught? Would that some minute anatomist of human feeling could
demonstrate that delicate fibre in an Irishwoman’s heart that vibrates
so responsively to everything in the army-list! In this happy land you
need no nitrous oxide to promote the high spirits of your party; I had
rather have a sub. in a marching regiment than a whole gasometer full
of it. How often have I watched the sleepy eye of languid loveliness
brighten up--how often have I seen features almost plain in their
character assume a kind of beauty, as some red-coat drew near! Don’t
tell me of your insurrection acts, of your nightly outrages, your
outbreaks, and your burnings, as a reason for keeping a large military
force in Ireland--nothing of the kind. A very different object, indeed,
is the reason--Ireland is garrisoned to please the ladies. The
War Office is the most gallant of public bodies; and, with a true
appreciation of the daughters of the west, it inundates the land with
red-coats.
These observations were forced upon me as I looked about the room, and
saw on every side how completely the gallant Seventy-something had
cut out the country gentry. Poor fellows! you are great people at the
assizes--you are strong men at a road-sessions--but you’re mighty small
folk indeed before your wives and daughters when looked at to the
music of ‘Paddy Carey,’ and by the light of two hundred and fifty
mutton-candles.
The country-dance was at length formed, and poor Mr. Harkin, the master
of the ceremonies and Coryphaeus-in-ordinary of Loughrea, had, by dint
of scarce less fatigue than I experienced in my steeplechase, by running
hither and thither, imploring, beseeching, wheedling, coaxing, and even
cursing, at length succeeded in assembling sixty-four souls in a double
file upon the floor. Poor fellow! never was there a more disorderly
force. Nobody would keep his own place, but was always trying to get
above his neighbour. In vain did he tell the men to stand at their own
side. Alas! they thought that side their own where the ladies were also.
Then the band added to his miseries; for scarcely had he told them to
play ‘The Wind that shakes the Barley,’ when some changed it to ‘The
Priest in his Boots,’ and afterwards to ‘The Dead March in Saul.’ These
were heavy afflictions; for be it known that he could not give way,
as other men would in such circumstances, to a good outbreak of
passion--for Mr. Harkin was a public functionary, who, like all other
functionaries, had a character to sustain before the world. When kings
are angry, we are told by Shakespeare, Schiller, and others, they
rant it in good royal style. Now, when a dancing-master is excited by
passion, he never loses sight of the unities. If he flies down the floor
to chide the little fat man that is talking loudly, he contrives to do
it with a step, a spring, and a hop, to the time of one, two, three.
Is there a confusion in the figure, he advances to rectify it with a
_chassé_ rigadoon. Does Mr. Somebody turn his toes too much out, or is
Miss So-and-so holding her petticoats too high, he fugles the correction
in his own person--first imitating the deformity he would expose, and
then displaying the perfection he would point to.
On the evening in question, this gentleman afforded me by far the most
of the amusement of the ball. Nearly half the company had been in time
of yore his pupils, or were actually so at the very moment; so that,
independent of his cares as conductor of the festivities, he had also
the _amour propre_ of one who saw his own triumphs reflected in the
success of his disciples.
[Illustration: 325]
At last the dances were arranged. A certain kind of order was
established in the party; and Mr. Harkin, standing in the fifth
position, with all his fingers expanded, gave three symbolic claps of
his hand, and cried out, ‘Begin!’ Away went the band at once, and
down the middle I flew with my partner, to the measure of a quick
country-dance that no human legs could keep time to. Two others quickly
followed, more succeeding them like wave after wave. Nothing was too
fat, nothing too short, nothing too long, to dance. There they were, as
ill-paired as though, instead of treading a merry measure, they had been
linked in the very bonds of matrimony--old and young, the dwarf and the
brobdingnag, the plump and the lean, each laughing at the eccentricities
of his neighbour, and happily indifferent to the mirth he himself
afforded. By-the-bye, what a glorious thing it would be if we
could carry out this principle of self-esteem into all our
reciprocity-treaties, and, while we enjoyed what we derive from others,
be unconscious of the loss we sustained ourselves!
Unlike our English performance, the dance here was as free-and-easy a
thing as needs be. Down the middle you went, holding, mayhap squeezing
your partner’s hand, laughing, joking, flirting, venturing occasionally
on many a bolder flight than at other times you could have dared; for
there was no time for the lady to be angry, as she tripped along to ‘The
Hare in the Corn’; and besides, but little wisdom could be expected from
a man while performing more antics than Punch in a pantomime. With all
this, there was a running fire of questions, replies, and recognitions,
from every one you passed--
‘That’s it, Captain: push along! begad, you’re doing it well!’--
‘Don’t forget to-morrow!’--‘Hands round!’--‘Hasn’t she a leg of her
own!’--‘Keep it up!’--‘This way I--turn, Miss Malone!’--‘You’ll come to
breakfast!’--‘How are ye, Joe?’ etc.
Scarcely was the set concluded, when Miss Bellew was engaged by another
partner; while I, at her suggestion, invited her cousin Mary to become
mine. The ball-room was now crowded with people; the mirth and fun grew
fast and furious. The country-dance occupied the whole length of the
room; and round the walls were disposed tables for whist or loo, where
the elders amused themselves with as much pleasure, and not less noise.
I fear that I gave my fair partner but a poor impression of an
aide-de-camp’s gallantry--answering at random, speaking vaguely and
without coherence, my eyes fixed on Miss Bellew, delighted when by
chance I could catch a look from her, and fretful and impatient when she
smiled at some remark of her partner. In fact, love has as many stages
as a fever; and I was in that acute period of the malady when the
feeling of devotion, growing every moment stronger, is checkered by a
doubt lest the object of your affections should really be indifferent
to you--thus suggesting all the torturing agonies of jealousy to your
distracted mind. At such times as these a man can scarcely be very
agreeable even to the girl he loves; but he is a confounded bore to a
chance acquaintance. So, indeed, did poor Mary Dillon seem to think; and
as, at the conclusion of the dance, I resigned her hand to a lieutenant
somebody, with pink cheeks, black eyebrows, and a most martial air, I
saw she looked upon her escape as a direct mercy from Providence.
Just at this moment, Mr. Dillon, who had only been waiting for the
propitious moment to pounce upon me, seized me by the arm, and led
me down the room. There was a charming woman dying to know me in one
corner; the best cock-shooting in Ireland wished to make my acquaintance
in another; thirty thousand pounds, and a nice little property in
Leitrim, was sighing for me near the fire; and three old ladies, the
_gros bonnets_ of the land, had kept the fourth place at the whist
table vacant for _my_ sake, and were at length growing impatient at my
absence.
_Non sunt mea verba_, good reader. Such was Mr. Dillon’s representation
to me, as he hurried me along, presenting me as he went to every one we
met--a ceremony in which I soon learned to perform my part respectably,
by merely repeating a formula I had adopted for my guidance: ‘Delighted
to know you, Mr. Burke!’ or, ‘Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs.
French!’ for, as nine-tenths of the men were called by the one, and
nearly all the ladies by the other appellation, I seldom blundered in my
addresses.
The evening wore on, but the vigour of the party seemed unabated. The
fatigues of fashionable life seemed to be as little known in Ireland
as its apathy and its ennui Poor, benighted people! you appear to enjoy
society, not as a refuge for your own weariness, not as an escape-valve
for your own vapours, but really as a source of pleasurable emotions--an
occasion for drawing closer the bonds of intimacy, for being agreeable
to your friends, and for making yourselves happy. Alas! you have much
to learn in this respect; you know not yet how preferable is the languid
look of _blasé_ beauty to the brilliant eye and glowing cheek of
happy girlhood; you know not how superior is the cutting sarcasm, the
whispered equivoque, to the kind welcome and the affectionate greeting;
and while enjoying the pleasure of meeting your friends, you absolutely
forget to be critical upon their characters or their costume!
What a pity it is that good-nature is underbred, and good-feeling is
vulgarity; for, after all, while I contrasted the tone of everything
around me with the supercilious cant and unimpassioned coldness of
London manners, I could not but confess to myself that the difference
was great and the interval enormous. To which side my own heart
inclined, it needed not my affection for Louisa Bellew to tell me; yes,
I had seen enough of life to learn how far are the real gifts of worth
and excellence preferable to the adventitious polish of high society.
While these thoughts rushed through my mind, another flashed across it.
What if my lady-mother were here! What if my proud cousin! How would her
dark eyes brighten as some absurd or ludicrous feature of the company
would suggest its _mot_ of malice or its speech of sarcasm! how would
their air, their carriage, their deportment, appear in _her_ sight! I
could picture to myself the cold scorn of her manner towards the men,
the insulting courtesy of her demeanour to the women; the affected
_naïveté_ with which she would question them as to their everyday
habits, and habitudes, their usages and their wants, as though she were
inquiring into the manners and customs of South Sea Islanders! I could
imagine the ineffable scorn with which she would receive what were meant
to be kind and polite attentions; and I could fashion to myself her
look, her manner, and her voice when escaping, as she would call it,
from her _Nuit parmi les sauvages_, she would caricature every trait,
every feature of the party, converting into food for laughter their
frank and hospitable bearing, and making their very warmth of heart the
groundwork of a sarcasm.
The ball continued with unabated vigour, and as, in obedience to Miss
Bellew’s request, I could not again ask her to dance, I myself felt
little inclination to seek for another partner. The practice of the
place seemed, however, as imperatively to exclude idleness as the
discipline of a man-of-war. If you were not dancing you ought to be
playing cards, making love, drinking negus, or exchanging good stories
with some motherly, fat, old lady, too heavy for a reel, too stupid for
loo. In this dilemma I cut into a round game, which I remember often to
have seen at Rooney’s, technically called ‘speculation.’ A few minutes
before, and I was fancying to myself what my mother would think of all
this; and now, as I drew my chair to the table, I muttered a prayer to
my own heart that she might never hear of my doings. How strange it is
that we would much rather be detected in some overt act of vice than
caught in any ludicrous situation or absurd position! I could look my
friends and family steadily enough in the face while standing amid all
the blacklegs of Epsom and the swindlers of Ascot, exchanging with
them the courtesies of life, and talking on terms of easy and familiar
intercourse; yet would I rather have been seen with the veriest
pickpocket in fashionable life, than seated amid that respectable and
irreproachable party who shook their sides with laughter around the
card-table!
Truly, it was a merry game, and well suited for a novice, as it required
no teaching. Each person had his three cards dealt him, one of which was
displayed to the company in rotation. Did this happen to be a knave or
some other equally reproachful character, the owner was mulcted to the
sum of fivepence; and he must indeed have had a miser’s heart who could
regret a penalty so provocative of mirth. Often as the event took
place, the fun never seemed to grow old; and from the exuberance of
the delight, and the unceasing flow of the laughter, I began to wonder
within myself if these same cards had not some secret and symbolic
meaning unknown to the neophyte. But the drollery did not end here:
you might sell your luck and put up your hand to auction. This led to
innumerable droll allusions and dry jokes, and, in fact, if ever a game
was contrived to make one’s sides ache, this was it.
A few sedate and sober people there were, who, with bent brow and
pursed-up lip, watched the whole proceeding. They were the secret police
of the card-table; it was in vain to attempt to conceal your luckless
knave from their prying eyes; with the glance of a tax-collector they
pounced upon the defaulter, and made him pay. Barely or never smiling
themselves, they really felt all the eagerness, all the excitement
of gambling; and I question if, after all, their hard looks and stern
features were not the best fun of the whole.
After about two hours had been thus occupied, during which I had won
the esteem and affection of several elderly ladies by the equanimity
and high-mindedness with which I bore up against the loss of two whole
baskets of counters, amounting to the sum of four-and-sixpence, I felt
my shoulder gently touched, and at the same moment Bob Mahon whispered
in my ear--‘The Dillons are going, and he wants to speak a word with
you; so give me your cards, and slip away.’
Resigning my place to the Major, whose advent was received with evident
signs of dissatisfaction, inasmuch as he was a shrewd player, I hurried
through the room to find out Dillon.
‘Ah, here he is!’ said Miss Bellew to her uncle, while she pointed to
me. ‘How provoking to go away so early--isn’t it, Mr. Hinton?’
‘You, doubtless, feel it so,’ said I, with something of pique in my
manner; ‘your evening has been so agreeably passed.’
‘And yours, too, if I am to judge from the laughter of your card-table.
I am sure I never heard so noisy a party. Well, Mary, does he consent?’
‘No; papa is still obstinate, and the carriage is ordered. He says
we shall have so much gaiety this week that we must go home early
to-night.’
‘There! there! now be good girls; get on your muffling, and let us be
off. Ah, Mr. Hinton!--the very man I wanted. Will you do us the very
great favour of coming over for a few days to Mount Brown? We shall have
the partridge-shooting after to-morrow, and I think I can show you some
sport. May I send in for you in the morning? What hour will suit you?
You will not refuse me, I trust?’
‘I need not say, my dear sir, how obliged I feel for and with what
pleasure I should accept your kind invitation; but the truth is, I’ve
come away without leave of absence. The duke may return any day, and I
shall be in a sad scrape.’
‘Do you think a few days----’
A look from Louisa Bellew, at this moment, came most powerfully in
aid of her uncle’s eloquence. I hesitated, and looked uncertain how to
answer.
‘There, girls! now is your time. He is half persuaded to do a kind
thing; do try and convince him the whole way. Come, Mary! Fanny!
Louisa!’
A second look from Miss Bellew decided the matter; and as a flush of
pleasure coloured my cheek, I shook Dillon warmly by the hand, and
promised to accept his invitation.
‘That is like a really good fellow,’ said the little man, with a face
sparkling with pleasure. ‘Now, what say you, if we drive over for you
about two o’clock? The girls are coming in to make some purchases, and
we shall all drive out together.’
This arrangement, so very palatable to me, was agreed upon, and I now
took Miss Bellow’s arm to lead her to the carriage. On descending to
the hall a delay of a few minutes ensued, as the number of vehicles
prevented the carriage coming up. The weather appeared to have changed;
and it was now raining heavily, and blowing a perfect storm.
As the fitful gusts of wind howled along the dark corridors of the old
building, dashing the rain upon our faces even where we stood, I drew my
fair companion closer to my side, and held her cloak more firmly round
her. What a moment was that! Her arm rested on mine; her very tresses
were blown each moment across my cheek. I know not what I said, but I
felt that in the tones of my voice they were the utterings of my heart
that fell from my lips. I had not remembered that Mr. Dillon had already
placed his daughters in the carriage, and was calling to us loudly to
follow.
‘No, no, I pray you not!’ said Louisa, in reply to I know not what.
‘Don’t you hear my uncle?’
In her anxiety to press forward she had slightly disengaged her arm from
mine as she spoke. At this instant a man rushed forward, and catching
her hand, drew it rudely within his arm, calling out as he did so--
‘Never fear, Louisa! you shall not be insulted while your cousin is here
to protect you.’
She sprang round to reply: ‘You are mistaken, Ulick! It is Mr. Hinton!’
She could say no more, for he lifted her into the carriage, and, closing
the door with a loud bang, desired the coachman to drive on.
Stupefied with amazement, I stood quite motionless. My first impulse was
to strike him to the ground; for although a younger and a weaker man, I
felt within me at the moment the strength to do it. My next thought was
of Louisa’s warning not to quarrel with her cousin. The struggle was
indeed a severe one, but I gained the victory over my passion. Unable,
however, to quit the spot, I stood with my arms folded, and my eyes
riveted upon him. He returned my stare, and with a sneer of insufferable
insolence passed me by and walked upstairs. Not a word was spoken on
either side; but there are moments in one’s life in which a look or
passing glance rivets an undying hate. Such a one did we exchange and
nothing that the tongue could speak could compass that secret instinct
by which we ratified our enmity.
With slow, uncertain steps I mounted the stairs. Some strange
fascination led me, as it were, to dog his steps; and although in my
heart I prayed that no collision should ever come between us, yet I
could not resist the headlong impulse to follow and to watch him.
Like that unexplained temptation that leads the gazer over some lofty
precipice to move on, step by step, yet nearer to the brink, conscious
of his danger, yet unable to recede; so did I track this man from place
to place, following him as he passed from one group to the other of his
friends, till at length he seated himself at a table, around which a
number of persons were engaged in noisy and boisterous conversation.
He filled a tumbler to the brim with wine, and drinking it off at a
draught, refilled again.
‘You are thirsty, Ulick,’ said some one.
‘Thirsty! On fire, by G----! You’ll not believe me when I tell
you--I can’t do it; no, by Heaven! there is nothing in the way of
provocation----’
As he said thus much, some lady passing near induced him to drop his
voice, and the remainder of the sentence was inaudible to me. Hitherto
I had been standing beside his chair; I now moved round to the opposite
side of the table, and, with my arms folded and my eyes firmly fixed,
stood straight before him. For an instant or two he did not remark me,
as he continued to speak with his head bent downwards. Suddenly lifting
up his eyes, he started--pushed his chair slightly back from the
table--
‘And look! see!’ cried he, as with outstretched finger he pointed toward
me--‘see! if he isn’t there again!’
Then suddenly changing the tone of his voice to one of affected
softness, he continued, addressing me--
‘I have been explaining, sir, as well as my poor powers will permit,
the excessive pains I have taken to persuade you to prove yourself a
gentleman. One half the trouble you have put me to would have told an
Irish gentleman what was looked for at his hands; you appear, however,
to be the best-tempered fellows in the world at your side of the
Channel. Come now, boys! if any man likes a bet, I’ll wager ten guineas
that even this won’t ruffle his amiable nature. Pass the sherry here,
Godfrey! Is that a clean glass beside you?’
So saying, he took the decanter, and, leisurely filling the glass, stood
up as if to present it, but when he attained the erect position, he
looked at me fixedly for a second, and then dashed the wine in my face.
A roar of laughter burst around me, but I saw and heard no more. The
moment before, and my head was cool, my senses clear, my faculties
unclouded; but now, as if derangement had fallen upon me, I could
see nothing but looks of mockery and scorn, and hear nothing save the
discordant laugh and the jarring accent of derision.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE INN FIRE
How I escaped from that room, and by what means I found myself in the
street, I know not. My first impulse was to tear off my cravat, that I
might breathe more freely; still a sense of suffocation oppressed me,
and I felt stunned and stupefied.
‘Come along, Hinton--rouse yourself, my boy! See, your coat is drenched
with rain,’ said a friendly voice behind me; while, grasping me forcibly
by the arm, the Major led me forward.
‘What have I done?’ cried I, struggling to get free. ‘Tell me--oh, tell
me, have I done wrong? Have I committed any dreadful thing? There is an
aching pain here--here in my forehead, as though----- I dare not speak
my shame.’
‘Nothing of the kind, my boy,’ said Mahon: ‘you’ve conducted yourself
admirably. Matt Keane saw it all, and he says he never witnessed
anything finer; and he’s no bad judge, let me tell you. So, there now,
be satisfied, and take off your wet clothes.’
There was something imperative in the tone in which he spoke; besides,
the Major was one of those people who somehow or other always contrive
to have their own way in the world; so that I yielded at once, feeling,
too, that any opposition would only defer my chance of an explanation.
While I was thus occupied in my inner room, I could overhear my friend
without engaged in the preparation of a little supper, mingling an
occasional soliloquy with the simmering of the grilled bone that browned
upon the fire--the clink of glasses and plates, and all the evidences
of punch-making, breaking every now and then amid such reflections as
these:--
‘A mighty ugly business! nothing for it but meeting him. Poor lad,
they’ll say we murdered him among us! Och, he’s far too young
for Galway. Holloa, Hinton, are you ready? Now you look something
reasonable; and when we’ve eaten a bit, well talk this matter over
coolly and sensibly. And to make your mind easy, I may tell you at once,
I have arranged a meeting for you with Burke at five to-morrow morning.’
I grasped his hand convulsively within mine, as a gleam of savage
satisfaction shot through me.
‘Yes, yes,’ said he, as if replying to my look, ‘it’s all as it ought to
be. Even his own friends are indignant at his conduct; and indeed I may
say it’s the first time a stranger has met with such in our country.’
‘I can well believe it,’ Major,’ said I; ‘for, unless from the
individual in question, I have met with nothing but kindness and
good feeling amongst you. He indeed would seem an exception to his
countrymen.’
‘Therefore the sooner you shoot him the better. But I wish I could
Father Tom.’
‘_Adest, domine_,’ cried the priest, at the same moment, as he entered
the room, throwing his wet greatcoat into a corner and giving himself
a shake a Newfoundland dog might have envied. ‘Isn’t this pretty work,
Bob?’ said he, turning to his cousin with a look of indignant reproach:
‘he is not twenty-four hours in the town, and you’ve got him into
a fight already! And sure it’s my own fault that ever brought you
together. _Nec fortunam nec gratiam habes_--no indeed, you have neither
luck nor grace. _Mauvaise tête_, as the French say---always in trouble.
Arrah, don’t be talking to me at all, at all! reach me over the spirits.
Sorra better I ever saw you!--disturbing me out of my virtuous dreams at
two in the morning. True enough, _dic mihi societatem tuam_; but little
I thought he’d be getting you shot before you left the place.’
I endeavoured to pacify the good priest as well as I was able; the Major
too made every explanation; but what between his being called out of
bed, his anger at getting wet, and his cousin’s well-known character for
affairs of this nature, it was not before he had swallowed his second
tumbler of punch that he would ‘listen to rayson.’
‘Well, well, if it is so, God’s will be done,’ said he with a sigh. ‘_Un
bon coup d’épee_, as we used to say formerly, is beautiful treatment for
bad blood; but maybe you’re going to fight with pistols? Oh, murther,
them’s dreadful things!’
‘I begin to suspect,’ said the Major slyly, ‘that Father Tom’s afraid
if you shoot Ulick he’ll never get that fifty pounds he won. _Hinc illo
lacrymo_--eh, Tom?’
‘Ah, the spalpeen,’ said the priest, with a deep groan, ‘didn’t he do me
out of that money already?’
‘How so, father?’ said I, scarce able to repress my laughter at the
expression of his face.
‘I was coming down the main street yesterday evening with Doctor
Plunkett, the bishop, beside me, discoursing a little theology, and
looking as pious and respectable as may be, when that villain Burke came
running out of a shop, and pulling out his pocket-book, cried--
‘“Wait a bit, Father Tom, you know I’m a little in your debt about that
race; and as you’re a sporting character, it’s only fair to book up at
once.”
‘“What is this I hear, Father Loftus?” says the bishop.
‘“Oh, my lord,” say I, “he’s a _jocosus puer_--a humbugging bla-guard;
a _farceur_, your reverence, and that’s the way he is always cutting his
jokes upon the people.”
“‘And so he does not owe you this money?” said the bishop, looking
mighty hard at us both.
‘“Not a farthing of it, my lord.”
‘“That’s comfortable, anyhow,” says Burke, putting up his pocket-book;
“and ‘faith, my lord,” said he with a wink, “I wish I had a loan of you
for an hour or two every settling day, for troth you ‘re a trump!” And
with that he went off laughing, till ye’d have thought he’d split his
sides--and I am sure I wish he had.’
I don’t think Mr. Burke himself could have laughed louder or longer at
his scheme than did we in hearing it, The priest at length joined in the
mirth, and I could perceive, as the punch made more inroads upon him
and the evening wore on, that his holy horror of duelling was gradually
melting away before the warmth of his Hibernian propensities, like a wet
sponge passed across the surface of a dark picture, bringing forth from
the gloom many a figure and feature indistinct before, and displaying
touches of light not hitherto appreciable, so whisky seems to exercise
some strange power of displaying its votaries in all their breadth of
character, divesting them of the adventitious clothes in which position
or profession has invested them. Thus a tipsy Irishman stands forth in
the exuberance of his nationality, _Hibernicis Hibernior_. Forgetting
all his moral declamation on duelling, oblivious of his late indignation
against his cousin, he rubbed his hands pleasantly, and related story
after story of his own early experiences, some of them not a little
amusing.
The Major, however, seemed not fully to enjoy the priest’s anecdotical
powers, but sipped his glass with a grave and sententious air. ‘Very
true, Tom,’ said he at length, breaking silence; ‘you have seen a fair
share of these things for a man of your cloth. But where’s the man
living--show him to me, I say--that has had my experience, either as
principal or second? Haven’t I had my four men out in the same morning?’
‘Why, I confess,’ said I meekly, ‘that does seem an extravagant
allowance.’
‘Clear waste, downright profusion, _du luxe, mon cher_, nothing else,’
observed Father Tom.
Meanwhile, the Major rolled his eyes fearfully at me, and fidgeted in
his chair with impatience to be asked for his story; and as I myself had
some curiosity on the subject, I begged him to relate it.
‘Tom, here, doesn’t like a story at supper,’ said the Major pompously;
for, perceiving our attitude of attention, he resolved on being a little
tyrannical before telling it.
The priest made immediate submission; and, slyly hinting that his
objection only lay against stories he had been hearing for the last
thirty years, said he could listen to the narration in question with
much pleasure.
‘You shall have it, then,’ said the Major, as he squared himself in his
chair, and thus began:--
‘You have never been in Castle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide
bleak line of country there, that stretches away to the westward, with
nothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here
and there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, half an acre of
lumpers, or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on
their way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they
traverse; and the very fish that swim in them are brown and smutty also.
‘In the very heart of this wild country, I took it into my head to build
a house. A strange notion it was, for there was no neighbourhood and no
sporting; but, somehow, I had taken a dislike to mixed society some time
before that, and I found it convenient to live somewhat in retirement;
so that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me, neither were
the process-servers; and the truth was, I kept a much sharper look-out
for the sub-sheriff than I did for the snipe.
‘Of course, as I was over head and ears in debt, my notion was to build
something very considerable and imposing; and, to be sure, I had a fine
portico, and a flight of steps leading up to it; and there were ten
windows in front, and a grand balustrade at the top; and ‘faith, taking
it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick, the
windows so narrow, and the stones so black, that my cousin Darcy Mahon
called it Newgate; and not a bad name either--and the devil another
it ever went by. And even that same had its advantages; for when the
creditors used to read that at the top of my letters, they’d say, “Poor
devil! he has enough on his hands: there’s no use troubling him any
more.” Well, big as Newgate looked from without, it had not much
accommodation when you got inside. There was, ‘tis true, a fine hall,
all flagged; and, out of it, you entered what ought to have been the
dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-and-twenty, but which was used
for herding sheep in winter. On the right hand, there was a cosy little
breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the back of
the hall, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was a grand
staircase of old Irish oak, that ought to have led up to a great suite
of bedrooms, but it only conducted to one--a little crib I had for
myself. The remainder were never plastered nor floored; and, indeed, in
one of them, that was over the big drawing-room, the joists were never
laid--which was all the better, for it was there we used to keep our hay
and straw. Now, at the time I mention, the harvest was not brought in,
and instead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low; so
that, when you opened the door above the stairs, instead of finding the
hay up beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you.
‘I can’t help boring you with all these details; first, because they
are essential to my story; and next, because, being a young man, and a
foreigner to boot, it may lead you to a little better understanding of
some of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have,
after lush and the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a
big house, spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the
case may be, in getting it half finished, and then live in a corner of
it, “just for grandeur,” as a body may say. It’s a droll notion,
after all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn’t at least six
specimens of what I mention.
‘Newgate was a beautiful one; and although the she lived in the parlour,
and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-room, Darby Whaley slept
in the boudoir, and two bull-dogs and a buck goat kept house in the
library--‘faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not one
that saw it, from the highroad to Ennis--and you could see it for twelve
miles in every direction--didn’t say, “That Mahon must be a snug fellow:
look what a beautiful place he has of it there!” Little they knew that
it was safer to go up the “Reeks” than my grand staircase, and it was
like rope-dancing to pass from one room to the other.
‘Well, it was about four o’clock in the afternoon of a dark lowering day
in December that I was treading homewards in no very good-humour; for
except a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with
nothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry
on as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout behind me, and a
voice called out--
‘“It’s Bob Mahon, boys! By the Hill of Scariff, we are in luck!”
‘I turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red
coats--they were the Blazers. There was Dan Lambert, Tom Burke, Harry
Eyre, Joe M’Mahon, and the rest of them--fourteen souls in all. They had
come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake’s about ten miles from me;
but, in the strange mountain country, they lost the dogs, they lost
their way and their temper; in truth, to all appearance, they lost
everything but their appetites. Their horses were dead beat too, and
they looked as miserable a crew as ever you set eyes on.
‘“Isn’t it lucky, Bob, that we found you at home?” said Lambert.
‘“They told us you were away,” says Burke.
‘“Some said that you were grown so pious that you never went out except
on Sundays,” added old Harry, with a grin.
‘“Begad,” said I, “as to the luck, I won’t say much for it; for here’s
all I can give you for your dinner”; and so I pulled out the four birds
and shook them at them; “and as to the piety, troth, maybe you’d like to
keep a fast with as devoted a son of the Church as myself.”
‘“But isn’t that Newgate up there?” said one.
‘“That same.”
‘“And you don’t mean to say that such a house as that hasn’t a good
larder and a fine cellar?”
‘“You’re right,” said I; “and they’re both full at this very moment--the
one with seed-potatoes, and the other with Whitehaven coals.”
‘“Have you got any bacon?” said M’Mahon.
‘“Oh yes!” said I, “there’s bacon.”
‘“And eggs?” said another.
‘“For the matter of that, you might swim in batter.”
‘“Come, come,” said Dan Lambert, “we ‘re not so badly off after all.”
‘“Is there whisky?” cried Eyre.
‘“Sixty-three gallons, that never paid the king sixpence!”
‘As I said this, they gave three cheers you’d have heard a mile off.
‘After about twenty minutes’ walking, we got up to the house, and when
poor Darby opened the door, I thought he ‘d faint; for, you see, the red
coats made him think it was the army, coming to take me away; and he was
for running off to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck.
‘“It’s the Blazers, ye old fool!” said I, “The gentlemen are come to
dine here.”
‘“Hurroo!” said he, clapping his hands on his knees--“there must be
great distress entirely, down about Nenagh, and them parts, or they’d
never think of coming up here for a bit to eat.”
‘“Which way lie the stables, Bob?” said Burke.
‘“Leave all that to Darby,” said I; for ye see he had only to whistle
and bring up as many people as he liked. And so he did too; and as there
was room for a cavalry regiment, the horses were soon bedded down and
comfortable; and in ten minutes’ time we were all sitting pleasantly
round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs.
‘“Now, if you’d like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come
along with me.”
‘“By all means,” said he.
‘The others were standing up too; but I observed that as the house was
large, and the ways of it unknown to them, it was better to wait till
I’d come back for them.
‘“This was a real piece of good-luck, Bob,” said Dan, as he followed me
upstairs. “Capital quarters we’ve fallen into; and what a snug bedroom
ye have here.”
‘“Yes,” said I carelessly; “it’s one of the small rooms. There are eight
like this, and five large ones, plainly furnished, as you see; but for
the present, you know----”
‘“Oh, begad! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here--the other
fellows may care for your four-posters with satin hangings.”
‘“Well,” said I, “if you are really not joking, I may tell you that the
room is one of the warmest in the house”--and this was telling no lie.
‘“Here I ‘ll sleep,” said he, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and
giving the bed a most affectionate look. “And now let us join the rest.”
‘When I brought Dan down, I took up Burke, and after him M’Mahon, and so
on to the last; but every time I entered the parlour, I found them all
bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet he
had got the best bedroom.
‘Dinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very
perfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men
cutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did
nothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the
kitchen and back again, as hard as he could trot.
‘Do you know, now, that many a time since, when I have been giving
venison, and Burgundy and claret enough to swim a lifeboat in, I often
thought it was a cruel waste of money; for the fellows weren’t half as
pleasant as they were that evening on bacon and whisky!
‘I’ve a theory on that subject, Hinton, I’ll talk to you more about
another time; I’ll only observe now, that I’m sure we all overfeed our
company. I’ve tried both plans; and my honest experience is, that as far
as regards conviviality, fun, and good-fellowship, it is a great mistake
to provide too well for your guests. There is something heroic in eating
your mutton-chop, or your leg of a turkey, among jolly fellows; there
is a kind of reflective flattering about it that tells you you have been
invited for your drollery, and not for your digestion; and that your
jokes and not your flattery have been your recommendation. Lord bless
you! I ‘ve laughed more over red-herrings and poteen than I ever expect
to do again over turtle and toquay.
‘My guests were, to do them justice, a good illustration of my theory.
A pleasanter and a merrier party never sat down together. We had good
songs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink; until at
last poor Darby became so overpowered, by the fumes of the hot water
I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so we were
compelled to boil the kettle in the parlour. This, I think, precipitated
matters; for, by some mistake, they put punch into it instead of water,
and the more you tried to weaken the liquor, it was only the more tipsy
you were getting.
‘About two o’clock, five of the party were under the table, three more
were nodding backwards and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest
were mighty noisy, and now and then rather disposed to be quarrelsome.
‘“Bob,” said Lambert to me, in a whisper, “if it’s the same thing to
you, I’ll slip away and get into bed.”
‘“Of course, if you won’t take anything more. Just make yourself at
home; and as you don’t know the way here, follow me.”
‘“I ‘m afraid,” said he, “I ‘d not find my way alone.”
‘“I think,” said I, “it’s very likely. But come along!”
‘I walked upstairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I
went the other way, till I came to the door of the large room that I
have told you already was over the big drawing-room. Just as I put my
hand on the lock, I contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the
wind.
‘“What a draught there is here,” said I; “but just step in, and I’ll go
for a light.”
‘He did as he was bid; but instead of finding himself on my beautiful
little carpet, down he went fourteen feet into the hay at the bottom. I
looked down after him for a minute or two, and then called out--
“‘As I am doing the honours of Newgate, the least I could do was to show
you the drop. Good-night, Dan! but let me advise you to get a little
farther from the door, as there are more coming.”
‘Well, sir, when they missed Dan and me out of the room, two or three
more stood up, and declared for bed also. The first I took up was
Ffrench, of Green Park; for indeed he wasn’t a cute fellow at the best
of times; and if it wasn’t that the hay was so low, he’d never have
guessed it was not a feather-bed till he woke in the morning. Well, down
he went. Then came Eyre; then Joe M’Mahon--two-and-twenty stone--no
less! Lord pity them!--this was a great shock entirely! But when I
opened the door for Tom Burke, upon my conscience you’d think it was
Pandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and
roaring with all their might.
‘“Good-night, Tom,” said I, pushing Burke forward. “It’s the cows you
hear underneath.”
‘“Cows!” said he. “If they ‘re cows, begad they must have got at that
sixty-three gallons of poteen you talked of; for they’re all drunk.”
‘With that, he snatched the candle out of my hand and looked down into
the pit. Never was such a sight seen before or since. Dan was pitching
into poor Ffrench, who, thinking he had an enemy before him, was hitting
out manfully at an old turf-creel, that rocked and creaked at every
blow, as he called out--
‘“I’ll smash you! I’ll ding your ribs for you, you’ infernal scoundrel!”
‘Eyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swimming for his life;
and poor Joe M’Mahon was patting him on the head, and saying, “Poor
fellow! good dog!” for he thought it was Towzer, the bull-terrier, that
was prowling round the calves of his legs.
‘“If they don’t get tired, there will not be a man of them alive by
morning!” said Tom, as he closed the door. “And now, if you ‘ll allow me
to sleep on the carpet, I’ll take it as a favour.”
‘By this time they were all quiet in the parlour; so I lent Tom a couple
of blankets and a bolster, and having locked my door, went to bed with
an easy mind and a quiet conscience. To be sure, now and then a cry
would burst forth, as if they were killing somebody below-stairs, but I
soon fell asleep and heard no more of them.
‘By daybreak next morning they made their escape; and when I was trying
to awake at half-past ten, I found Colonel M’Morris, of the Mayo, with a
message from the whole four.
‘“A bad business this, Captain Mahon,” said he; “my friends have been
shockingly treated.”
‘“It’s mighty hard,” said I, “to want to shoot me because I hadn’t
fourteen feather-beds in the house.”
‘“They will be the laugh of the whole country, sir.”
‘“Troth!” said I, “if the country is not in very low spirits, I think
they will.”
‘“There’s not a man of them can see!--their eyes are actually closed
up!”
‘“The Lord be praised!” said I. “It’s not likely they’ll hit me.”
‘But to make a short story of it--out we went. Tom Burke was my friend.
I could scarce hold my pistol with laughing; for such faces no man ever
looked at. But for self-preservation’s sake, I thought it best to hit
one of them; so I just pinked Ffrench a little under the skirt of the
coat. ‘“Come, Lambert!” said the Colonel, “it’s your turn now.”
‘“Wasn’t that Lambert,” said I, “that I hit?”
‘“No,” said he, “that was Ffrench.”
‘“Begad, I’m sorry for it. Ffrench, my dear fellow, excuse me; for you
see you’re all so like each other about the eyes this morning----”
‘With this there was a roar of laughing from them all, in which, I
assure you, Lambert took not a very prominent part; for somehow he
didn’t fancy my polite inquiries after him. And so we all shook hands,
and left the ground as good friends as ever--though to this hour the
name of Newgate brings less pleasant recollections to their minds than
if their fathers had been hanged at its prototype.’
CHAPTER XXIX. THE DUEL
When morning broke, I started up and opened the window. It was one
of those bright and beauteous daybreaks which would seem to be the
compensation a northern climate possesses for its want of the azure sky
of noon and the silvery moonlight of night, the gifts of happier climes.
The pink hue of the sky was gradually replacing the paler tints, like
a deep blush mantling the cheek of beauty; the lark was singing high in
heaven, and the deep note of the blackbird came mellowed from the leafy
grove; the cattle were still at rest, and seemed half unwilling to break
the tranquil stillness of the scene, as they lay breathing the balmy
odours from the wild flowers that grew around them. Such was the picture
that lay on one side of me. On the other was the long street of a little
town, on which yet the shadows of night were sleeping; the windows were
closed; not a smoke-wreath rose from any chimney, but all was still and
peaceful.
In my little parlour I found the good priest and the Major fast asleep
in their chairs, pretty much in the same attitudes I had left them in
some hours before. The fire had died away; the square decanter of whisky
was emptied to its last drop, and the kettle lay pensively on one side,
like some shipwrecked craft high and dry upon the shore. I looked at my
watch; it was but four o’clock. Our meeting was appointed for half-past
five; so I crept noiselessly back to my room, not sorry to have half
an hour to myself of undisturbed reflection. When I had finished my
dressing, I threw up the sash and sprang out into the garden. It was
a wild, uncultivated spot; but still there was something of beauty in
those old trees whose rich blossoms scented the air, while the rank
weeds of many a gay and gaudy hue shot up luxuriantly about their
trunks, the pink marsh-mallow and the taper foxglove mingling their
colours with the sprayey meadowsweet and the wild sweet-brier. There
was an air of solitude in the neglect around me that seemed to suit the
habit of my soul; and I strolled along from one walk to another, lost in
my own thoughts.
There were many things at a moment like that I would fain have written,
fain have said; but so it is, in the wealth of our emotions we can give
nothing, and I could not bring myself to write to my friends even to say
farewell Although I felt that in every stage of this proceeding I had
nothing to reproach myself with, this duel being thrust on me by one who
had singled me out for his hatred, yet I saw as its result nothing but
the wreck of all my hopes. Already had _she_ intimated how strong was
her father’s attachment to his nephew, and with an expressive fear
cautioned me against any collision with him. How vain are all our
efforts, how fruitless are all our endeavours, to struggle against
the current of our fate. We may stem for a short time the full tide of
fortune, we may breast with courage high and spirit fierce the rough
billows as they break upon us, but we are certain to succumb in the end.
With some men failure is a question of fear; some want the persevering
courage to drag on amid trials and difficulties; and some are deficient
in the temper which, subduing our actions to a law, governs and presides
over every moment of our lives, rendering us, even in our periods of
excitement and irritation, amenable to the guidance of our reason. This
was my case; and I felt that notwithstanding all my wishes to avoid a
quarrel with Burke, yet in my heart a lurking spirit urged me to seek
him out and offer him defiance.
While these thoughts were passing through my mind, I suddenly heard a
voice which somehow seemed half familiar to my ear. I listened; it came
from a room of which the window was partly open. I now remembered that
poor Joe lay in that part of the house, and the next moment I knew it
to be his. Placing a ladder against the wall, I crept quietly up till I
could peep into the room. The poor fellow was alone, sitting up in
his bed, with his hunting-cap on, an old whip in his hand, which
he flourished from time to time with no small energy; his cheek was
flushed, and his eye, prominent and flashing, denoted the access of high
fever. It was evident that his faculties, clouded as they were even in
their happiest moments, were now under the wilder influence of delirium.
He was speaking rapidly to himself in a quick undertone, calling the
dogs by name, caressing this one, scolding that; and then, bursting
forth into a loud tally-ho, his face glowed with an ecstatic pleasure,
and he broke forth into a rude chant, the words of which I have
never forgotten, for as he sang them in a voice of wild and touching
sweetness, they seemed the very outpourings of his poor simple heart:--
‘I never yet owned a horse or hound,
I never was lord of a foot of ground;
Yet few are richer, I will be bound,
Than me of a hunting morning.
‘I ‘m far better off nor him that pays,
For though I ‘ve no money, I live at my aise,
With hunting and shooting whenever I plase,
And a tally-high-ho in the morning.
‘As I go on foot, I don’t lose my sate,
As I take the gaps, I don’t break a gate;
And if I’m not first, why I’m seldom late,
With my tally-high-ho in the morning.
‘And there’s not a man, be he high or low,
In the parts down here, or wherever you go,
That doesn’t like poor Tipperary Joe,
With his tally-high-ho in the morning.’
A loud view-holloa followed this wild chant; and then the poor fellow,
as if exhausted by his efforts, sank back in the bed muttering to
himself in a low broken voice, but with a look so happy, and a smile so
tranquil, he seemed more a thing to envy than one to commiserate and
pity.
‘I say, Hinton!’ shouted the Major from the window of my bedroom,
‘what the deuce are you doing up that ladder there? Not serenading Mrs.
Doolan, I hope. Are you aware it is five o’clock?’
I descended with all haste, and joining my friend, took his arm, and set
out towards the rendezvous.
‘I didn’t order the horses,’ said Mahon, ‘for the rumour of such a thing
as this always gets abroad through one’s servants.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said I; ‘and then you have the police.’
‘The police!’ repeated he, laughing--‘not a bit of it, my boy; don’t
forget you’re in glorious old Ireland, where no one ever thinks of
spoiling a fair fight. It is possible the magistrate might issue his
warrant if you would not come up to time, but for anything else----’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘that certainly does afford me another glimpse of your
habits. How far have we to go, Major?’
‘You remember the grass-field below the sunk fence, to the left of the
mill?’
‘Where the stream runs?’
‘Exactly; that’s the spot. It was old Pigott chose it, and no man is a
better judge of these things. By-the-bye, it is very lucky that Burke
should have pitched upon a gentleman for his friend--I mean a real
gentleman, for there are plenty of his acquaintances who under that name
would rob the mail.’
Thus chatting as we went, Mahon informed me that Pigott was an old
half-pay Colonel, whose principal occupation for thirteen years had been
what the French would call ‘to assist’ at affairs of honour. Even the
Major himself looked up to him as a last appeal in a disputed or a
difficult point; and many a reserved case was kept for his opinion,
with the same ceremonious observance as a knotty point of law for the
consideration of the twelve judges. Crossing the little rivulet near
the mill, we held on by a small bypath which brought us over the
starting-ground of the steeplechase, by the scene of part of my
preceding day’s exploits. While I was examining with some curiosity
the ground cut up and trod by the horses’ feet, and looking at the
spot where we had taken the fence, the sharp sound of two pistol-shots
quickly aroused me, and I eagerly asked what it was.
‘Snapping the pistols,’ said Mahon. ‘Ah, by-the-bye, all this kind of
thing is new to you. Never mind; put a careless, half-indifferent kind
of face on the matter. Do you take snuff? It doesn’t signify; put your
hands in your pockets, and hum “Tatter Jack Walsh!”’
As I supposed there was no specific charm in the melody he alluded to,
nor if there had been, had I any time to acquire it, I consoled myself
by observing the first part of his direction, and strolled after him
into the field with a nonchalance only perhaps a little too perfect.
Mr. Burke and his friends, to the number of about a dozen persons, were
already assembled; and were one to judge from their loud talking and
hearty laughter as we came forward, it would seem difficult to believe
the occasion that brought them there was that of mortal combat. So, at
least, I thought. Not so, however, the Major; for with a hop, step, and
a jump, performed by about the shortest pair of legs in the barony, he
sprang into the midst of the party, with some droll observation on the
benefits of early rising which once more called forth their merriment.
Seating myself on a large moss-covered stone, I waited patiently for
the preliminaries to be settled. As I threw my eye among the group, I
perceived that Burke was not there; but on turning my head, I remarked
two men walking arm-in-arm on the opposite side of the hedge. As they
paced to and fro, I could see, by the violence of his gesticulations and
the energy of his manner, that one was Burke. It seemed as though his
companion was endeavouring to reason with and dissuade him from some
course of proceeding he appeared bent on following; but there was a
savage earnestness in his manner that would not admit of persuasion; and
at last, as if wearied and vexed by his friend’s importunities, he broke
rudely from him, and springing over the fence, called out--
‘Pigott, are you aware it is past six?’ Then pulling out his watch, he
added, ‘I must be at Ballinasloe by eleven o’clock.’
‘If you speak another word, sir,’ said the old Colonel, with an air
of offended dignity, ‘I leave the ground. Major Mahon, a word, if you
please.’
They walked apart from the rest for a few seconds; and then the Colonel,
throwing his glove upon the grass, proceeded to step off the ground
with a military precision and formality that I am sure at any other time
would have highly amused me.
After a slight demur from the Major, to which I could perceive the
Colonel readily yielded, a walking-stick was stuck at either end of
the measured distance; while the two seconds, placing themselves beside
them, looked at each other with very great satisfaction, and mutually
agreed it was a sweet spot.
‘Would you like to look at these?’ said Pigott, taking up the pistols
from where they lay on the grass.
‘Ah, I know them well,’ replied the Major, laughing; ‘these were poor
Tom Casey’s, and a better fellow, and a handier with his iron, never
snapped a trigger. These are ours, Colonel’; presenting, as he spoke,
two splendid-looking Mortimers, in all the brilliancy of their maiden
freshness. A look of contempt from the Colonel, and a most expressive
shrug of his shoulders, was his reply.
‘Begad, I think so,’ said Mahon, as if appreciating the gesture; ‘I had
rather have that old tool with the cracked stock--not but this is a very
sweet instrument, and elegantly balanced in the hand.’
‘We are ready now,’ said Pigott; ‘bring up your man, Major.’
As I started up to obey the summons, a slight bustle near attracted me.
Two or three of Burke’s friends were endeavouring as it were to pacify
and subdue him; but his passion knew no bounds, and as he broke from
them, he said in a voice perfectly audible where I stood--
‘Won’t I, by G----! then I’ll tell you, if I don’t shoot him-----’
‘Sir,’ said the Colonel, turning on him a look of passionate
indignation, ‘if it were not that you were here to answer the appeal
of wounded honour, I’d leave you to your fate this moment; as it is,
another such expression as that you ‘ve used, and I abandon you on the
spot.’
Doggedly and without speaking, Burke drew his hat far down upon
his eyes, and took the place marked out for him.
‘Mr. Hinton,’ said the Colonel, as he touched his hat with most
courteous politeness, ‘will you have the goodness to stand there?’
Mahon, meanwhile, handed each man his pistol, and whispering in my ear,
‘Aim low,’ retired.
‘The word, gentlemen,’ said the Colonel, ‘will be, “One, two, three.”
Mr. Hinton, pray observe, I beg of you, you ‘ll not reserve your fire
after I say “three.”’ With his eyes fixed upon us he walked back about
ten paces. ‘Are you ready? Are you both ready?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Burke impatiently.
‘Yes,’ said I.
‘One, two, three.’
I lifted my pistol at the second word, and as the last dropped from the
Colonel’s lips one loud report rang through the air, and both pistols
went off together. A quick sharp pang shot through my cheek as though it
had been seared by a hot instrument. I put up my hand, but the ball had
only touched the flesh, and a few drops of blood were all the damage.
Not so Burke; my ball had entered above the hip, and already his
trousers were stained with blood, and notwithstanding his endeavours he
could not stand up straight.
‘Is he hit, Pigott?’ cried he, in a voice harsh from agony. ‘Is he hit,
I say?’
‘Only grazed,’ said I tranquilly, as I wiped the stain from my face.
‘Another pistol, quick! Do you hear me, Pigott?’
‘We are not the arbiters in this case,’ replied the Colonel coolly.
‘Major Mahon, is your friend satisfied?’
‘Perfectly satisfied on our own account,’ said the Major; ‘but if the
gentleman desires another shot----’
‘I do, I do!’ screamed Burke, as, writhing with pain, he pressed both
hands to his side, from which the blood, now gushing in torrents, formed
a pool about his feet. ‘Be quick there, Pigott! I am getting faint.’ He
staggered forward as he spoke, his face pale and his lips parted; then
suddenly clutching his pistol by the barrel, he fixed his eyes steadily
on me, while with a curse he hurled the weapon at my head, and fell
senseless to the earth. His aim was true; for straight between the eyes
the weapon struck me, and felled me to the ground. Although stunned
for the moment, I could hear the cry of horror and indignant shame that
broke from the bystanders; but the next instant a dreamy confusion came
over me, and I became unconscious of what was passing around.
CHAPTER XXX. A COUNTRY DOCTOR
Should my reader feel any interest concerning that portion of my history
which immediately followed the events of my last chapter, I believe I
must refer him to Mrs. Doolan, the amiable hostess of the Bonaveen
Arms. She could probably satisfy any curious inquiry as to the confusion
produced in her establishment by the lively sallies of Tipperary Joe in
one quarter, and the more riotous madness of myself in another. The fact
is, good reader, my head was an English one; and although its contents
were gradually acclimating themselves to the habits of the country, the
external shell had not assumed that proper thickness and due power of
resistance which Irish heads would appear to be gifted with. In plain
words, the injury had brought on delirium.
It was somewhere in the third week after this unlucky morning that I
found myself lying in my bed with a wet cloth upon my temples, while
over my whole frame was spread that depressing sense of great debility
more difficult to bear than acute bodily suffering. Although unable to
speak, I could distinctly hear the conversation about me, and recognise
the voices of both Father Tom and the Major as they conversed with a
third party, whom I afterwards learned was the Galen of Loughrea.
Dr. Mopin, surgeon of the Roscommon militia, had been for forty years
the terror of the sick of the surrounding country; for, independent of
a naturally harsh and disagreeable manner, he had a certain slangy and
sneering way of addressing his patients that was perfectly shocking.
Amusing himself the while at their expense, by suggesting the various
unhappy and miserable consequences that might follow on their illness,
he appeared to take a diabolical pleasure in the terror he was capable
of eliciting. There was something almost amusing in the infernal
ingenuity he had acquired in this species of torture. There was no
stage of your illness, no phase of your constitution, no character or
condition of your malady, that was not the immediate forerunner of one
or more afflicting calamities. Were you getting weaker, it was the
way they always died out; did you gain strength, it was a rally before
death; were you despondent, it was the best for you to know your state;
were you sanguine, he would rebuke your good spirits and suggest the
propriety of a priest. However, with all these qualifications people put
up with him; and as he had a certain kind of rude skill, and never stuck
at a bold method, he obtained the best practice of the country and a
widespread reputation.
‘Well,’ said Father Tom, in a low voice--‘well, Doctor, what do you
think of him this evening?’
‘What do I think of him? Just what I thought before--congestion of the
membranes. This is the low stage he is in now; I wouldn’t be surprised
if he’d get a little better in a few days, and then go off like the rest
of them.’
‘Go off! eh? Now you don’t mean----’
‘Don’t I? Maybe not. The ould story--coma, convulsions, and death.’
‘Damn the fellow!’ said the Major, in a muttered voice, ‘I feel as if I
was in a well. But I say, Doctor, what are we to do?’
‘Anything you plase. They say his family is mighty respectable, and have
plenty of money. I hope so; for here am I coming three times a day,
and maybe when he dies it will be a mourning ring they’ll be sending
me instead of my fee. He was a dissipated chap I am sure: look at the
circles under his eyes!’
‘Ay, ay,’ said the priest, ‘but they only came since his illness.’
‘So much the worse,’ added the invincible Doctor; ‘that’s always a
symptom that the base of the brain is attacked.’
‘And what happens then?’ said the Major.
‘Oh, he might recover. I knew a man once get over it, and he is alive
now, and in Swift’s Hospital.’
‘Mad?’ said the priest.
‘Mad as a March hare,’ grinned the Doctor; ‘he thinks himself the
post-office clock, and chimes all the hours and half-hours day and
night.’
‘The heavens be about us!’ said Father Tom, crossing himself piously. ‘I
had rather be dead than that.’
‘When did you see Burke?’ inquired the Major, wishing to change the
conversation.
‘About an hour ago; he is going fast.’
‘Why, I thought he was better,’ said Father Tom; ‘they told me he ate a
bit of chicken, and took a little wine and water.’
‘Ay, so he did; I bid them give him whatever he liked, as his time was
so short. So, after all, maybe it is as well for this young chap here
not to get over it.’
‘How so?’ said the Major. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just that it is as good to die of a brain fever as be hanged; and it
won’t shock the family.’
‘I ‘d break his neck,’ muttered Bob Mahon, ‘if there was another doctor
within forty miles.’
Of all his patients, Tipperary Joe was the only one of whom the Doctor
spoke without disparagement. Whether that the poor fellow’s indifference
to his powers of terrorising had awed or conciliated him, I know
not; but he expressed himself favourably regarding his case, and his
prospects of recovery.
‘Them chaps always recover,’ drawled out the Doctor in a dolorous
cadence.
‘Is it true,’ said the Major, with a malicious grin--‘is it true that
he changed all the splints and bandages to the sound leg, and that you
didn’t discover the mistake for a week afterwards? Mary Doolan told me.’
‘Mrs. Doolan,’ said the Doctor, ‘ought to be thinking of her own
misfortunes; and with an acute inflammation of the pericardium, she
might be making her sowl.’
‘She ill?--that fine, fat, comfortable-looking woman!’
‘Ay, just so; they’re always fat, and have a sleepy look about the eyes,
just like yourself. Do you ever bleed at the nose?’
‘Never without a blow on it. Come, come, I know you well, Doctor; you
shall not terrify me.’
‘You’re right not to fret; for it will take you off suddenly, with
a giddiness in your head, and a rolling in your eyes, and a choking
feeling about your throat----’
‘Stop, and be d----d to you!’ said the Major, as he cleared his voice a
couple of times, and loosed the tie of his cravat. ‘This room is
oppressively hot.’
‘I protest to God,’ said Father Tom, ‘my heart is in my mouth, and there
isn’t a bone in my body that’s not aching.’
‘I don’t wonder,’ chimed in the Doctor; ‘you are another of them, and
you are a surprising man to go on so long. Sure, it is two years ago I
warned your niece that when she saw you fall down she must open a vein
in your neck, if it was only with a carving-knife.’
‘The saints in heaven forbid!’ said the priest, cutting the sign of the
cross in the air; ‘it’s maybe the jugular she’d cut!’
‘No,’ drawled out the Doctor, ‘she needn’t go so deep; and if her hand
doesn’t shake, there won’t be much danger. Good-evening to you both.’
So saying, with his knees bent, and his hands crossed under the skirts
of his coat, he sneaked out of the room; while the others, overcome,
with fear, shame, and dismay, sat silently, looking misery itself, at
each side of the table.
‘That fellow would kill a regiment,’ said the Major at length. ‘Come,
Tom, let’s have a little punch; I ‘ve a kind of a trembling over me.’
‘Not a drop of anything stronger than water will cross my lips this
blessed night. Do you know, Bob, I think this place doesn’t agree with
me? I wish I was back in Murranakilty: the mountain air, and regular
habits of life, that’s the thing for me.’
‘We are none of us abstemious enough,’ said the Major; ‘and then we
bachelors--to be sure you have your niece.’
‘Whisht!’ said the priest, ‘how do you know who is listening? I vow to
God I am quite alarmed at his telling that to Mary; some night or other,
if I take a little too much, she’ll maybe try her anatomy upon me!’
This unhappy reflection seemed to weigh upon the good priest’s mind, and
set him a-mumbling certain Latin offices between his teeth for a quarter
of an hour.
‘I wish,’ said the Major, ‘Hinton was able to read his letters, for here
is a whole bundle of them--some from England, some from the Castle, and
some marked “On His Majesty’s service.”’
‘I’ll wait another week anyhow for him,’ said the priest. ‘To go back to
Dublin in the state he is now would be the ruin of him, after the shake
he has got. The dissipation, the dining-out, and all the devilment
would destroy him entirely; but a few weeks’ peace and quietness up at
Murranakilty will make him as sound as a bell.’
‘You are right, Tom, you are right,’ said the Major; ‘the poor fellow
mustn’t be lost for the want of a little care; and now that Dillon has
gone, there is no one here to look after him. Let us go down and see if
the post is in; I think a walk would do us good.’
Assenting to this proposition, the priest bent over me mournfully for
a moment, shook his head, and having muttered a blessing, walked out of
the room with the Major, leaving me in silence to think over all I had
overheard.
Whether it was that youth suggested the hope, or that I more quickly
imbibed an appreciation of the Doctor’s character from being the
looker-on at the game, I am not exactly sure; but certainly I felt
little depressed by his gloomy forebodings respecting me, and greatly
lightened at my heart by the good news of poor Tipperary Joe.
Of all the circumstances which attended my illness, the one that most
impressed me was the warm, affectionate solicitude of my two friends,
the priest and his cousin. There was something of kindness and good
feeling in their care of me that spoke rather of a long friendship than
of the weaker ties of chance and passing acquaintance. Again I thought
of home; and while I asked myself if the events which beset my path
in Ireland could possibly have happened to me there, I could not but
acknowledge that if they had so, I could scarcely have hoped to suddenly
conjure up such faithful and benevolent friends, with no other claim,
nor other recommendation, save that of being a stranger.
The casual observation concerning my letters had, by stimulating my
curiosity, awakened my dormant energy; and by a great effort I stretched
out my hand to the little bell beside my bed, and rang it. The summons
was answered by the barelegged girl who acted as waiter in the inn. When
she had sufficiently recovered from her astonishment to comprehend my
request, I persuaded her to place a candle beside me; and having given
me the packet of letters that lay on the chimney-piece, I desired her
on no account to admit any one, but say that I had fallen into a sound
sleep, and should not be disturbed.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE LETTER-BAG
The package of letters was a large one, of all sizes. From all quarters
they came--some from home; some from my brother officers of the Guards;
some from the Castle; and even one from O’Grady.
The first I opened was a short note from Horton, the private secretary
to the viceroy. This informed me that Major Mahon had written a
statement to the duke of all the circumstances attending my duel; and
that his grace had not only expressed himself highly satisfied with
my conduct, but had ordered a very polite reply to be addressed to
the Major, thanking him for his great kindness, and saying with what
pleasure he found that a member of his staff had fallen into such good
hands.
‘His grace desires me to add,’ continued the writer, ‘that you need only
consult your own health and convenience with respect to your return to
duty; and, in fact, your leave of absence is perfectly discretionary.’
My mind relieved of a weighty load by the contents of this letter, I
recovered my strength already so far that I sat up in bed to peruse the
others. My next was from my father; it ran thus:--
‘Dear Jack,--Your friend Major Mahon, to whom I write by this post,
will deliver this letter to you when he deems fit. He has been most
good-natured in conveying to me a narrative of your late doings; and
I cannot express how grateful we all are to him for the truly friendly
part he has taken towards you. After the strictest scrutiny, for
I confess to you I feared lest the Major’s might be too partial an
account, I rejoice to say that your conduct meets with my entire
approbation. An older and a wiser head might, it is possible, have
avoided some of the difficulties you have met with; but this I will add,
that once in trouble, no one could have shown better temper or a
more befitting spirit than you did. While I say this, my dear Jack,
understand me clearly that I speak of you as a young, inexperienced man,
thrown, at his very outset of life, not only among strangers, but in a
country where, as I remarked to you at first, everything was different
from those in your own. You have now shown yourself equal to any
circumstances in which you may be placed. I therefore not only expect
that you will meet with fewer embarrassments in future, but that, should
they arise, I shall have the satisfaction of finding your character
and your habits will be as much your safeguard against insult as your
readiness to resent any will be sure and certain.
‘I have seen the duke several times, and he expresses himself as much
pleased with you. From what he mentions, I can collect that you are well
satisfied with Ireland, and therefore I do not wish to remove you from
it. At the same time, bear in mind, that by active service alone can you
ever attain to, or merit, rank in the army; and that hitherto you have
only been a soldier by name.’
After some further words of advice respecting the future, and some few
details of family matters, he concluded by entrusting to my mother the
mention of what she herself professed to think lay more in her peculiar
province.
As usual, her letter opened with some meteorological observations upon
the climate of England for the preceding six weeks; then followed a
journal of her own health, whose increasing delicacy, and the imperative
necessity of being near Doctor Y------, rendered a journey to Ireland
too dangerous to think of.
‘Yes, my dearest boy,’ wrote she, ‘nothing but this would keep me from
you a moment; however, I am much relieved at learning that you are now
rapidly recovering, and hope soon to hear of your return to Dublin. It
is a very dreadful thing to think of, but perhaps, upon the whole, it
is better that you did kill this Mr. Burke. De Grammont tells me that
a _mauvaise tête_ like that must be shot sooner or later. It makes
me nervous to dwell on this odious topic, so that I shall pass on to
something else.
‘The horrid little man that brought your letters, and who calls himself
a servant of Captain O’Grady, insisted on seeing me yesterday. I never
was more shocked in my life. From what he says, I gather that he may
be looked on as rather a favourable specimen of the natives. They must
indeed be a very frightful people; and although he assured me he would
do me no injury, I made Thomas stay in the room the entire time, and
told Chubbs to give the alarm to the police if he heard the slightest
noise. The creature, however did nothing, and I have quite recovered
from my fear already.
‘What a picture, my dear boy, did he present to me of your conduct and
habits! Your intimacy with that odious family I mentioned in my last
seems the root of all your misfortunes. Why will such people thrust
themselves forward? What do they mean by inviting you to their frightful
parties? Have they not their own peculiar horrors?--not but I must
confess that they are more excusable than you; and I cannot conceive
how you could so soon have forgotten the lessons instilled into you from
your earliest years. As your poor dear grandfather, the admiral, used to
say, a vulgar acquaintance is a shifting sand; you can never tell where
you won’t meet it--always at the most inopportune moment; and then,
if you remark, your underbred people are never content with a quiet
recognition, but they must always indulge in a detestable cordiality
there is no escaping from. Oh, John, John! when at ten years of age you
made the banker’s son at Northampton hold your stirrup as you mounted
your pony, I never thought I should have this reproach to make you.
‘The little fiend who calls himself Corny something, also mentions your
continued familiarity with the young woman I spoke of before. What her
intentions are is perfectly clear; and should she accomplish her object
your position in society and future fortune might possibly procure her
large damages; but pause, my dear boy, before you go any further. I do
not speak of the moral features of the case, for you are of an age to
judge of them yourself; but think, I beseech you, of the difficulties it
will throw around your path in life, and the obstacles it will oppose to
your success. There is poor Lord Henry Effingham; and since that foolish
business with the clergyman’s wife or daughter, where somebody went mad,
and some one else drowned or shot himself, they have never given him any
appointment whatever. The world is a frightful and unforgiving thing, as
poor Lord Henry knows; therefore beware!
‘The more I think of it, the more strongly do I feel the force of
my first impressions respecting Ireland; and were it not that we so
constantly hear of battles and bloodshed in the Peninsula, I should even
prefer your being there. There would seem to be an unhappy destiny over
everything belonging to me. My poor dear father, the admiral, had a
life of hardship, almost unrewarded. For eleven years he commanded a
guardship in the Nore; many a night have I seen him, when I was a little
girl, come home dripping with wet, and perfectly insensible from the
stimulants he was obliged to resort to, and be carried in that state to
his bed; and after all this he didn’t get his blue ribbon till he was
near sixty.
‘De Vere is constantly with us, and is, I remark, attentive to your
cousin Julia. This is not of so much consequence, as I hear that her
Chancery suit is taking an unhappy turn; should it be otherwise, your
interests will, of course, be looked to. De Vere is most amusing, and
has a great deal of wit; but for him and the Count we should be quite
dreary, as the season is over, and we can’t leave town for at least
three weeks. [The epistle concluded with a general summing up of its
contents, and an affectionate entreaty to bear in mind her caution
regarding the Rooneys.] Once more, my dear boy, remember that vulgar
people are a part of our trials in this life. As that delightful man,
the Dean of St. George’s, says, they are snares for our feet; and their
subservient admiration of us is a dangerous and a subtle temptation.
Read this letter again, and believe me, my dearest John, your
affectionate and unhappy mother,
‘Charlotte Hinton.’
I shall not perform so undutiful a task as to play the critic on my
excellent mother’s letter. There were, it is true, many new views of
life presented to me by its perusal, and I should feel sadly puzzled
were I to say at which I was more amused or shocked--at the strictness
of her manners, or the laxity of her morals; but I confess that the part
which most outraged me of all was the eulogy on Lord Dudley de Vere’s
conversational gifts. But a few short months before, and it is possible
I should not only have credited but concurred in the opinion; brief,
however, as had been the interval, it had shown me much of life; it
had brought me into acquaintance, and even intimacy, with some of the
brightest spirits of the day; it had taught me to discriminate between
the unmeaning jargon of conventional gossip and the charm of a society
where force of reasoning, warmth of eloquence, and brilliancy of wit
contested for the palm; it had made me feel that the intellectual gifts
reserved in other countries for the personal advancement of their owner
by their public and ostentatious display, can be made the ornament and
the delight of the convivial board, the elegant accompaniment to the
hours of happy intercourse, and the strongest bond of social union.
So gradually had this change of opinion crept over me that I did not
recognise in myself the conversion; and indeed had it not been for my
mother’s observations on Lord Dudley, I could not have credited how far
my convictions had gone round. I could now understand the measurement by
which Irishmen were estimated in the London world. I could see that if
such a character as De Vere had a reputation for ability, how totally
impossible it was for those who appreciated him to prize the great and
varied gifts of such men as Grattan and Curran, and many more.
Lost in such thoughts, I forgot for some moments that O’Grady’s letter
lay open before me. It was dated Chatham, and written the night before
he sailed. The first few lines showed me that he knew nothing of
my duel, having only received my own letter with an account of the
steeplechase. He wrote in high spirits. The Commander-in-chief had
been most kind to him, appointing him to a vacant Majority--not, as he
anticipated, in the Forty-first, but in the Ninth light Dragoons.
‘I am anxiously looking out for Corny,’ said he, ‘and a great letter-bag
from Ireland--the only bit of news from which, except your own, is that
the Rooneys have gone into deep mourning, themselves and their whole
house. Various rumours are afloat as to whether any money speculations
of Paul’s may have suggested the propriety of retrenchment, or whether
there may not have been a death in the royal family of OToole. Look to
this for me, Hinton; for even in Canada I shall preserve the memory
of that capital house, its excellent _cuisine_, its charming hostess.
Cultivate them, my dear Jack, for your sake and for mine. One Rembrandt
is as good as a gallery; so sit down before them, and make a study of
the family.’
The letter concluded as it began, by hearty thanks for the service I had
rendered him, begging me to accept of Moddiridderoo as a souvenir of his
friendship. And in a postscript, to write which the letter had evidently
been reopened, was a warning to me against any chance collision with
Ulick Burke.
‘Not, my dear boy, because he is a dead shot--although that same is
something--but that a quarrel with him could scarcely be reputable in
its commencement, and must be bad whatever the result.’
After some further cautioning on this matter, the justice of which
was tolerably evident from my own experience, O’Grady concluded with a
hurried postscript:--
‘Corny has not yet arrived, and we have received our orders for
embarkation within twenty-four hours. I begin half to despair of his
being here in time. Should this be the case, will you, my dear Hinton,
look after the old villain for me, at least until I write to you again
on the subject?’
While I was yet pondering on these last few lines, I perceived that a
card had fallen from my father’s letter. I took it up, and what was
my astonishment to find that it contained a correct likeness of Corny
Delany, drawn with a pen, underneath which was written, in my cousin
Julia’s hand, the following few lines:--
‘The dear old thing has waited three days, and I think I have at length
caught something like him. Dear Jack, if the master be only equal to
the man, we shall never forgive you for not letting us see him.--Yours,
Julia.’
[Illustration: 367]
This, of course, explained the secret of Corny’s delay--my cousin,
with her habitual wilfulness, preferring the indulgence of a caprice to
anything resembling a duty; and I now had little doubt upon my mind that
O’Grady’s fears were well founded, and that he had been obliged to sail
without his follower.
The exertion it cost me to read my letters, and the excitement produced
by their perusal, fatigued and exhausted me, and as I sank back upon my
pillow I closed my eyes and fell sound asleep, not to wake until late on
the following day. But strange enough, when I did so, it was with a head
clear and faculties collected, my mind refreshed by rest unbroken by
a single dream; and so restored did I feel, that, save in the debility
from long confinement to bed, I was unconscious of any sense of malady.
From this hour my recovery dated. Advancing every day with rapid steps,
my strength increased; and before a week elapsed, I so far regained my
lost health that I could move about my chamber, and even lay plans for
my departure.
CHAPTER XXXII. BOB MAHON AND THE WIDOW
It was about eight or ten days after the events I have mentioned, when
Father Tom Loftus, whose care and attention to me had been unceasing
throughout, came in to inform me that all the preparations for our
journey were properly made, and that by the following morning at sunrise
we should be on the road.
I confess that I looked forward to my departure with anxiety. The dreary
monotony of each day, spent either in perambulating my little room or in
a short walk up and down before the inn door, had done more to depress
and dispirit me than even the previous illness. The good priest, it is
true, came often to see me; but then there were hours spent quite alone,
without the solace of a book or the sight of even a newspaper. I knew
the face of every man, woman, and child in the village; I could tell
their haunts, their habits, and their occupations. Even the very hours
of the tedious day were marked in my mind by various little incidents,
that seemed to recur with unbroken precision; and if when the pale
apothecary disappeared from over the half-door of his shop I knew
that he was engaged at his one o’clock dinner, so the clink of the old
ladies’ pattens, as they passed to an evening tea, told me that the day
was waning, when the town-clock should strike seven. There was nothing
to break the monotonous jog-trot of daily life save the appearance of
a few raw subalterns, who, from some cause or other, less noticed than
others of the regiment by the neighbouring gentry, strolled about the
town, quizzing and laughing at the humble townsfolk, and endeavouring,
by looks of most questionable gallantry, to impress the female
population with a sense of their merits.
After all, mankind is pretty much the same in every country and every
age--some men ambitioning the credit of virtues the very garb of which
they know not; others, and a large class too, seeking for the reputation
of vices the world palliates with the appellation of ‘fashionable.’ We
laugh at the old courtier of Louis xiv.’s time, who in the flattery
of the age he lived in preferred being called a _scélérat_, an _infâme
scélérat_, that by the excesses _he_ professed the vicious habits of the
sovereign might seem less striking; and yet we see the very same thing
under our own eyes every day we live.
But to return. There was nothing to delay me longer at Loughrea. Poor
Joe was so nearly recovered that in a few days more it was hoped he
might leave his bed. He was in kind hands, however, and I had taken
every precaution that he should want for nothing in my absence.
I listened, then, with pleasure to Father Tom’s detail of all his
preparations; and although I knew not whither we were going, nor how
long the journey was likely to prove, yet I looked forward to it with
pleasure, and only longed for the hour of setting out.
As the evening drew near, I looked anxiously out for the good father’s
arrival. He had promised to come in early with Major Mahon, whom I had
not seen for the two days previous--the Major being deeply engaged in
consultations with his lawyer regarding an approaching trial at the
assizes. Although I could gather from his manner, as well as from the
priest’s, that something of moment impended, yet as neither of them
more than alluded to the circumstance, I knew nothing of what was going
forward.
It was eight o’clock when Father Tom made his appearance. He came alone,
and by his flurried look and excited manner I saw there was something
wrong.
‘What is it, father?’ said I. ‘Where is the Major?’
‘Och, confound him! they have taken him at last,’ said he, wiping his
forehead with agitation.
‘Taken him!’ said I. ‘Why, was he hiding?’
‘Hiding! to be sure he was hiding, and masquerading and disguising
himself! But, ‘faith, those Clare fellows, there’s no coming up to them;
they have such practice in their own county, they would take the devil
himself if there was a writ out against him. And, to be sure, it was a
clever trick they played old Bob.’
Here the good priest took such a fit of laughing that he was obliged to
wipe his eyes.
‘May I never,’ said he, ‘if it wasn’t a good turn they played him, after
what he did himself!’
‘Come, father, let’s hear it.’
‘This was the way of it. Maybe you never remarked--of course you didn’t,
for you were only up there a couple of times--that opposite Bob’s
lodgings there was a mighty sweet-looking crayture, a widow-woman; she
was dressed in very discreet black, and had a sorrowful look about her
that somehow or other, I think, made her even more interesting.
‘“I’d like to know that widow,” said Bob; “for now that the fellows have
a warrant against me, I could spend my days so pleasantly over there,
comforting and consoling her.”
‘“Whisht,” said I, “don’t you see that she is in grief?”
‘“Not so much in grief,” said he, “but she lets down two beautiful
braids of her brown hair under her widow’s cap; and whenever you see
that, Father Tom, take my word for it, the game’s not up.”
[Illustration: 373]
‘I believe there was some reason in what he said, for the last time I
went up to see him he had the window open, and he was playing “Planxty
Kelly” with all his might on an old fiddle; and the widow would come now
and then to the window to draw the little muslin curtain, or she would
open it to give a halfpenny to the beggars, or she would hold out her
hand to see if it was raining--and a beautiful lily-white hand it was;
but all the time, you see, it was only exchanging looks they were. Bob
was a little ashamed when he saw me in the room, but he soon recovered.
‘“A very charming woman that Mrs. Moriarty is,” said he, closing
the window. “It ‘s a cruel pity that her fortune is all in the Grand
Canal--I mean Canal debentures. But indeed it comes pretty much to the
same thing.”
‘And so he went on raving about the widow; for by this time he knew all
about her. Her maiden name was Cassidy, and her father a distiller; and,
in fact, Bob was quite delighted with his beautiful neighbour. At last
I bid him good-bye, promising to call for him at eight o’clock to come
over here to you; for you see there was a backdoor to the house that
led into a small alley, by which Mahon used to make his escape in the
evening. He was sitting, it seems, at his window, looking out for the
widow, who for some cause or other hadn’t made her appearance the entire
of the day. There he sat with his hand on his heart, and a heavenly
smile upon him for a good hour, sipping a little whisky-and-water
between times, to keep up his courage.
‘“She must be out,” said Bob to himself. “She ‘s gone to pass the day
somewhere. I hope she doesn’t know any of these impudent vagabonds up at
the barracks. Maybe, after all, it’s sick she is.”
‘While he was ruminating this way, who should he see turn the corner but
the widow herself. There she was, coming along in deep weeds, with her
maid after her--a fine slashing-looking figure, rather taller than her
though, and lustier every way; but it was the first time he saw her in
the streets. As she got near to her door, Bob stood up to make a polite
bow. Just as he did so, the widow slipped her foot, and fell down on the
flags with a loud scream. The maid ran up, endeavouring to assist
her, but she couldn’t stir; and as she placed her hand on her leg, Bob
perceived at once she had sprained her ankle. Without waiting for
his hat, he sprang downstairs, and rushed across the street. ‘“Mrs.
Moriarty, my angel!” said Bob, putting his arm round her waist. “Won’t
you permit me to assist you?”
‘She clasped his hand with fervent gratitude, while the maid, putting
her hand into her reticule, seemed fumbling for a handkerchief.
‘“I am a stranger to you, ma’am,” said Bob; “but if Major Mahon, of the
Roscommon----”
‘“The very man we want!” said the maid, pulling a writ out of the
reticule; for a devil a thing else they were but two bailiffs from
Ennis.
‘“The very man we want!” said the bailiffs.
‘“I am caught!” said Bob.
‘“The devil a doubt of it!”
‘At the same moment the window opened overhead, and the beautiful widow
looked out to see what was the matter.
‘“Good-evening to you, ma’am,” says Bob; “and I ‘d like to pay my
respects if I wasn’t particularly engaged to these ladies here.” And
with that he gave an arm to each of them and led them down the street,
as if it was his mother and sister.’
‘The poor Major!’ said I. ‘And where is he now? On his way to Ennis
in a post-chaise; for it seems the ladies had a hundred pounds for their
capture. Ah, poor Bob! But there is no use fretting; besides it would
be sympathy thrown away, for he ‘ll give them the slip before long. And
now, Captain, are you ready for the road? I have got a peremptory letter
from the bishop, and must be back in Murranakilty as soon as I can.’
‘My dear father, I am at your disposal I believe we can do no more for
poor Joe; and as to Mr. Burke--and, by-the-bye, how is he?’
‘Getting better, they say. But I believe you’ve spoiled a very lucrative
source of his income. He was the best jumper in the west of Ireland;
and they tell me you’ve lamed him for life. He is down at Milltown, or
Kilkee, or somewhere on the coast; but sure well have time enough to
talk of these things as we go along. I’ll be with you by seven o’clock.
We must start early, and get to Portumna before night.’
Having promised implicit obedience to the worthy priest’s directions,
be they what they might, I pledged myself to make up my luggage in
the smallest possible space, and have breakfast ready for him before
starting. After a few other observations and some suggestions as to the
kind of equipment he deemed suitable to the road, he took his leave, and
I sat down alone to a little quiet reckoning with myself as to the past,
the present, and the future.
From my short experience of Ireland, the only thing approaching to an
abstract principle I could attain to was the utter vanity, the perfect
impossibility, of any man’s determining on a given line of action or the
steady pursuit of any one enterprise. No; the inevitable course of fate
seems to have chosen this happy island to exhibit its phenomena.
Whether your days be passed in love or war, or your evenings in drink or
devotion, not yours be the glory; for there would seem to be a kind of
headlong influence at work, impelling you ever forward. Acquaintances
grow up, ripen, and even bear fruit before in other lands their roots
would have caught the earth; by them your tastes are regulated, your
habits controlled, your actions fashioned. You may not, it is true, lisp
in the _patois_ of blarney; you may weed your phraseology of its tropes
and figures; but trust me, that if you live in Ireland, if you like the
people (and who does not?), and if you are liked by them (and who would
not be?), then do I say you will find yourself, without knowing or
perceiving it, going the pace with the natives--courtship, fun, frolic,
and devilment filling up every hour of your day, and no inconsiderable
portion of your night also. One grand feature of the country seemed to
me, that, no matter what particular extravagance you were addicted
to, no matter what strange or absurd passion to do or seem something
remarkable, you were certain of always finding some one to sympathise
with if not actually to follow you. Nothing is too strange, nothing too
ridiculous, nothing too convivial, nothing too daring for Paddy. With
one intuitive bound he springs into your confidence and enters into your
plans. Only be open with him, conceal nothing, and he’s yours heart and
hand; ready to endorse your bill, to carry off a young lady, or carry
a message; to burn a house for a joke, or jeopardy his neck for mere
pastime; to go to the world’s end to serve you, and on his return shoot
you afterwards out of downright good-nature.
As for myself, I might have lived in England to the age of Methuselah,
and yet never have seen as much of life as in the few months spent in
Ireland. Society in other lands seems a kind of free-masonry, where
for lack of every real or important secret men substitute signs and
passwords, as if to throw the charm of mystery where, after all, nothing
lies concealed; but in Ireland, where national character runs in a deep
or hidden channel, with cross currents and backwater ever turning and
winding--where all the incongruous and discordant elements of what is
best and worst seem blended together--there, social intercourse is free,
cordial, warm, and benevolent. Men come together disposed to like one
another; and what an Irishman is disposed to, he usually has a way of
effecting. My brief career had not been without its troubles; but who
would not have incurred such, or as many more, to have evoked such
kind interest and such warm friendship? From Phil O’Grady, my first, to
Father Tom, my last friend, I had met with nothing but almost brotherly
affection; and yet I could not help acknowledging to myself, that, but
six short months before, I would have recoiled from the friendship of
the one and the acquaintance of the other, as something to lower and
degrade me. Not only would the outward observances of their manner have
deterred me, but in their very warm and earnest proffers of good-nature,
I would have seen cause for suspecting and avoiding them. Thank Heaven!
I now knew better, and felt deeper. How this revolution became effected
in me I am not myself aware. Perhaps--I only say perhaps--Miss Bellew
had a share in effecting it.
Such were some of my thoughts as I betook myself to bed, and soon after
to sleep.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE PRIEST’S GIG
I am by no means certain that the prejudices of my English education
were sufficiently overcome to prevent my feeling a kind of tingling shame
as I took my place beside Father Tom Loftus in his gig. Early as it was,
there were still some people about; and I cast a hurried glance around
to see if our equipage was not as much a matter of amusement to them as
of affliction to me.
When Father Tom first spoke of his ‘dennet,’ I innocently pictured to
myself something resembling the indigenous productions of Loughrea.
‘A little heavy or so,’ thought I; ‘strong for country roads; mayhap
somewhat clumsy in the springs, and not over-refined about the shafts.’
Heaven help my ignorance! I never fancied a vehicle whose component
parts were two stout poles, surmounting a pair of low wheels, high above
which was suspended, on two lofty C springs, the body of an ancient
buggy--the lining of a bright scarlet, a little faded and dimmed
by time, bordered by a lace of the most gaudy pattern; a flaming
coat-of-arms, with splendid blazonry and magnificent quarterings,
ornamented each panel of this strange-looking tub, into which, for
default of steps, you mounted by a ladder.
‘Eh, father,’ said I, ‘what have we here? This is surely not the----’
‘Ay, Captain,’ said the good priest, as a smile of proud satisfaction
curled his lip, ‘that’s “the convaniency”; and a pleasanter and an
easier never did man sit in. A little heavy, to be sure; but then one
can always walk up the hills; and if they’re very stiff ones entirely,
why it’s only throwing out the ballast.’
‘The ballast! What do you mean?’
‘Just them,’ said he, pointing with his whip to some three or four huge
pieces of limestone rock that lay in the bottom of the gig; ‘there’s
seven, maybe eight, stone weight, every pound of it.’
‘And for heaven’s sake,’ said I, ‘why do you carry that mass of rubbish
along with you?’
‘I’ll just tell you then. The road has holes in it you could bury your
father in; and when the convaniency gets into one of them, she has a way
of springing up into the air, that, if you ‘re not watching, is sure
to pitch you out--maybe into the bog at the side, maybe on the beast’s
back. I was once actually thrown into a public-house window, where
there was a great deal of fun going on, and the bishop came by before
I extricated myself. I assure you I had hard work to explain it to his
satisfaction.’ There was a lurking drollery in his eye, as he said
these last few words, that left me to the full as much puzzled about
the accident as his worthy diocesan. ‘But look at the springs,’ he
continued; ‘there’s metal for you! And do you mind the shape of the
body? It’s for all the world like the ancient _curriculus_. And look at
Bathershin himself--the ould varmint! Sure, he’s classical too!
Hasn’t he a Roman nose; and ain’t I a Roman myself? So get up,
Captain--_ascendite ad currum_; get into the shay. And now for the
_doch-aiv-dhurrss_--the stirrup-cup, Mrs. Doolan: that’s the darlin’.
Ah, there’s nothing like it!
“Sit mihi lagena, Ad summum plena.”
Here, Captain, take a pull--beautiful milk-punch!’
Draining the goblet to the bottom, which I confess was no unpleasant
task, I pledged my kind hostess, who, curtsying deeply refilled the
vessel for Father Tom.
‘That’s it, Mary; froth it up, acushla! Hand it here, my darlin’--my
blessing on ye.’
As he spoke, the worthy father deposited the reins at his feet, and
lifted the cup with both hands to his mouth; when suddenly the little
window over the inn door was burst open, and a loud tally-ho was shouted
out, in accents the wildest I ever listened to. I had barely time to
catch the merry features of poor Tipperary Joe, when the priest’s horse,
more accustomed to the hunting-field than the highroad, caught up the
welcome sound, gave a wild toss of his head, cocked up his tail, and,
with a hearty bang of both hind legs against the front of the chariot,
set off down the street as if the devil were after him. Feeling himself
at liberty, as well as favoured by the ground, which was all down hill,
the pace was really terrific. It was some time before I could gather
up the reins, as Father Tom, jug and all, had been thrown at the
first shock on his knees to the bottom of the convaniency, where, half
suffocated by fright and the milk-punch that went wrong with him, he
bellowed and coughed with all his might.
[Illustration: 380]
‘Howld him tight I--ugh, ugh, ugh!--not too hard; don’t chuck him for
the love of--ugh, ugh, ugh!--the reins is rotten and the traces no
better--ugh, ugh, ugh! Bad luck to the villains, why didn’t they catch
his head? And the _stultus execrabilis!_--the damned fool! how he
yelled!’
Almost fainting with laughter, I pulled my best at the old horse,
not, however, neglecting the priest’s caution about the frailty of the
harness. This, however, was not the only difficulty I had to contend
with; for the curriculus, participating in the galloping action of the
horse, swung upwards and downwards, backwards and forwards, and from
one side to the other--all at once too--in a manner so perfectly addling
that it was not before we reached the first turnpike that I succeeded in
arresting our progress. Here a short halt was necessary for the priest
to recover himself, and to examine whether either his bones or any
portion of the harness had given way. Both had happily been found proof
against mishaps, and drew from the reverend father strong encomiums upon
their merits; and after a brief delay we resumed our road, but at a much
more orderly and becoming pace than before.
Once more _en route_, I bethought me it was high time to inquire about
the direction we were to travel, and the probable length of our journey;
for I confess I was sadly ignorant as to the geography of the land we
were travelling, and the only point I attempted to keep in view was the
number of miles we were distant from the capital The priest’s reply was,
however, anything but instructive to me, consisting merely of a long
catalogue of names, in which the syllables ‘kill,’ ‘whack,’ ‘nock,’
‘shock,’ and ‘bally’ jostled and elbowed one another in the rudest
fashion imaginable--the only intelligible portion of his description
being, that a blue mountain scarcely perceptible in the horizon lay
about half-way between us and Murranakilty.
My attention was not, however, permitted to dwell on these matters;
for my companion had already begun a narrative of the events which had
occurred during my illness. The Dillons, I found, had left for Dublin
soon after my mishap. Louisa Bellew returned to her father; and Mr.
Burke, whose wound had turned out a more serious affair than was at
first supposed, was still confined to his bed, and a lameness for life
anticipated as the inevitable result of the injury.
‘Sir Simon, for once in his life,’ said the priest, ‘has taken a correct
view of his nephew’s character, and has, now that all danger to life is
past, written him a severe letter, reflecting on his conduct. Poor
Sir Simon! his life has been one tissue of trial and disappointment
throughout. Every buttress that supported his venerable house giving
way, one by one, the ruin seems to threaten total downfall, ere the old
man exchanges the home of his fathers for his last narrow rest beside
them in the churchyard. Betrayed on every hand, wronged and ruined, he
seems merely to linger on in life--like the stern-timbers of some mighty
wreck, that marks the spot where once the goodly vessel perished, and
are now the beacon of the quicksand to others. You know the sad story,
of course, that I alluded to----’
‘No; I am completely ignorant of the family history,’ said I.
The priest blushed deeply, as his dark eyebrows met in a heavy frown;
then turning hastily towards me, he said, in a voice whose thick, low
utterance bespoke his agitation--
‘Do not ask me, I beseech you, to speak further of what, had I been more
collected, I had never alluded to! An unhappy duel, the consequence of
a still more unhappy event, has blasted every hope in life for my poor
friend. I thought--that is, I feared lest the story might have reached
you. As I find this is not so, you will spare my recurring to that the
bare recollection of which comes like a dark cloud over the happiest day
of my existence. Promise me this, or I shall not forgive myself.’
I readily gave the pledge he required; and we pursued our road--not,
however, as before, but each sunk in his own reflections, silent,
reserved, and thoughtful.
‘In about four days,’ said Father Tom, at last breaking the silence,
‘perhaps five, we’ll be drawing near Murranakilty. He then proceeded, at
more length, to inform me of the various counties through which we were
to pass, detailing with great accuracy the several seats we should see,
the remarkable places, the ruined churches, the old castles, and even
the very fox-covers that lay on our route. And although my ignorance
was but little enlightened by the catalogue of hard names that fell
as glibly from his tongue as Italian from a Roman, yet I was both
entertained and pleased with the many stories he told--some of them
legends of bygone days, some of them the more touching and truth-dealing
records of what had happened in his own time. Could I have borrowed any
portion of his narrative power, were I able to present in his strong but
simple language any of the curious scenes he mentioned, I should perhaps
venture on relating to my reader one of his stories; but when I
think how much of the interest depended on his quaint and homely but
ever-forcible manner, as, pointing with his whip to some ruined house
with blackened walls and fallen chimneys, he told some narrative of
rapine and of murder, I feel how much the force of reality added power
to a story that in repetition might be weak and ineffective.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE MOUNTAIN PASS
On the whole, the journey was to me a delightful one, and certainly not
the least pleasant portion of my life in Ireland. Endowed--partly
from his individual gifts, partly from the nature of his sacred
functions--with influence over all the humble ranks in life, the good
priest jogged along with the assurance of a hearty welcome wherever he
pleased to halt--the only look of disappointment being when he declined
some proffered civility, or refused an invitation to delay his journey.
The chariot was well known in every town and village, and scarcely
was the rumble of its wheels heard coming up the ‘street’ when the
population might be seen assembling in little groups and knots, to have
a word with ‘the father,’ to get his blessing, to catch his eye, or even
obtain a nod from him. He knew every one and everything, and with a tact
which is believed to be the prerogative of royalty, he never miscalled
a name nor mistook an event. Inquiring after them, for soul and body, he
entered with real interest into all their hopes and plans, their fears
and anticipations, and talked away about pigs, penances, purgatory, and
potatoes in a way that showed his information on any of these matters to
be of no mean or common order.
By degrees our way left the more travelled highroad, and took by a
mountain tract through a wild, romantic line of country beside the
Shannon. No villages now presented themselves, and indeed but little
trace of any habitation whatever; large misshapen mountains, whose
granite sides were scarce concealed by the dark fern, the only
vegetation that clothed them, rose around and about us. In the valleys
some strips of bog might be seen, with little hillocks of newly-cut
turf, the only semblance of man’s work the eye could rest on. Tillage
there was none. A dreary silence, too, reigned throughout. I listened in
vain for the bleating of a lamb or the solitary tinkle of a sheep-bell;
but no--save the cawing of the rooks or the mournful cry of the plover,
I could hear nothing. Now and then, it is true, the heavy flapping of a
strong wing would point the course of a heron soaring towards the river;
but his low flight even spoke of solitude, and showed he feared not man
in his wild and dreamy mountains. At intervals we could see the Shannon
winding along, far, far down below us, and I could mark the islands in
the bay of Scariff, with their ruined churches and one solitary tower;
but no sail floated on the surface, nor did an oar break the sluggish
current of the stream. It was, indeed, a dreary scene, and somehow my
companion’s manner seemed coloured by its influence; for scarcely had we
entered the little valley that led to this mountain track than he became
silent and thoughtful, absorbed in reflection, and when he spoke, either
doing so at random or in a vague and almost incohérent way that showed
his ideas were wandering.
I remarked that as we stopped at a little forge shortly after daybreak,
the smith had taken the priest aside and whispered to him a few words,
at which he seemed strangely moved; and as they spoke together for some
moments in an undertone, I perceived by the man’s manner and gesture, as
well as by the agitation of the good father himself, that something of
importance was being told. Without waiting to finish the little repair
to the carriage which had caused our halt, he remounted hastily, and
beckoning me to take my place, drove on at a pace that spoke of haste
and eagerness. I confess that my curiosity to know the reason was
great; but as I could not with propriety ask, nor did my companion
seem disposed to give the information, I soon relapsed into a silence
unbroken as his own, and we travelled along for some miles without
speaking. Now and then the priest would make an effort to relieve the
weariness of the way by some remark upon the scenery, or some allusion
to the wild grandeur of the pass; but it was plain he spoke only from
constraint, and that his mind was occupied on other and very different
thoughts.
It was now wearing late, and yet no trace of any house or habitation
could I see, where to rest for the night. Not wishing, however, to
interrupt the current of my friend’s thoughts I maintained my silence,
straining my eyes on every side--from the dark mountains that towered
above me, to the narrow gloomy valley that lay several hundred feet
beneath our track--but all in vain. The stillness was unbroken, and not
a roof, not even a smoke-wreath, could be seen far as the view extended.
The road by which we travelled was scarped from the side of a mountain,
and for some miles pursued a gradually descending course. On suddenly
turning the angle of a rocky wall that skirted us for above a mile, we
came in sight of a long reach of the Shannon upon which the sun was now
setting in all its golden lustre. The distant shore of Munster, rich
in tillage and pasture-land, was lit up too with cornfield and green
meadow, leafy wood and blue mountain, all glowing in their brightest
hue. It was a vivid and a gorgeous picture, and I could have looked on
it long with pleasure, when suddenly I felt my arm grasped by a strong
finger. I turned round, and the priest, relaxing his hold, pointed down
into the dark valley below us, as he said in a low and agitated voice--
‘You see the light? It is there--there.’
Quickening our pace by every effort, we began rapidly to descend the
mountain by a zigzag road, whose windings soon lost us the view I have
mentioned, and left nothing but the wild and barren mountains around
us. Tired as our poor horse was, the priest pressed him forward; and
regardless of the broken and rugged way he seemed to think of nothing
but his haste, muttering between his teeth with a low but rapid
articulation, while his face grew flushed and pale at intervals, and
his eye had all the lustrous glare and restless look of fever. I
endeavoured, as well as I was able, to occupy my mind with other
thoughts; but with that invincible fascination that turns us ever to
the side we try to shun, I found myself again and again gazing on my
companion’s countenance. Every moment now his agitation increased; his
lips were firmly closed, his brow contracted, his cheek flattened and
quivering with a nervous spasm, while his hand trembled violently as he
wiped the big drops of sweat that rolled from his forehead.
At last we reached the level, where a better road presented itself
before us, and enabled us so to increase our speed that we were rapidly
coming up with the light, which, as the evening closed in, seemed larger
and brighter than before. It was now that hour when the twilight seems
fading into night--a grey and sombre darkness colouring every object,
but yet marking grass and rock, pathway and river, with some seeming of
their noonday hues, so that as we came along I could make out the roof
and walls of a mud cabin built against the very mountainside, in the
gable of which the light was shining. A rapid, a momentary thought
flashed across my mind as to what dreary and solitary man could fix his
dwelling-place in such a spot as this, when in an instant the priest
suddenly pulled up the horse, and, stretching out one hand with a
gesture of listening, whispered--
‘Hark! Did you not hear that?’
As he spoke, a cry, wild and fearful, rose through the gloomy valley--at
first in one prolonged and swelling note; then broken as if by sobs,
it altered, sank, and rose again wilder and madder, till the echoes,
catching up the direful sounds, answered and repeated them as though a
chorus of unearthly spirits were calling to one another through the air.
‘O God! too late--too late!’ said the priest, as he bowed his face upon
his knees, and his strong frame shook in agony. ‘O Father of Mercy!’
he cried, as he lifted his eyes, bloodshot and tearful, toward heaven,
‘forgive me this; and if unshriven before Thee--’
Another cry, more frantic than before, here burst upon us, and the
priest, muttering with rapid utterance, appeared lost in prayer. But at
him I looked no longer, for straight before us on the road, and in
front of the little cabin, now not above thirty paces from us, knelt
the figure of a woman, whom, were it not for the fearful sounds we had
heard, one could scarcely believe a thing of life. Her age was not more
than thirty years; she was pale as death; not a tinge, not a ray of
colour streaked her bloodless cheek; her black hair, long and wild, fell
upon her back and shoulders, straggling and disordered; while her hands
were clasped, as she held her stiffened arms straight before her. Her
dress bespoke the meanest poverty, and her sunken cheek and drawn-in
lips betokened famine and starvation. As I gazed on her almost
breathless with awe and dread, the priest leaped out, and hurrying
forward, cried out to her in Irish; but she heard him not, she saw him
not--dead to every sense, she remained still and motionless. No feature
trembled, no limb was shaken; she knelt before us like an image of
stone; and then, as if by some spell that worked within her, once
more gave forth the heart-rending cry we heard at first. Now low and
plaintive, like the sighing night-wind, it rose fuller and fuller,
pausing and continuing at intervals; and then breaking into short and
fitful efforts, it grew wilder and stronger, till at last with one
outbreak, like the overflowing of a heart of misery, it ceased abruptly.
The priest bent over her and spoke to her; he called her by her name,
and shook her several times--but all in vain. Her spirit, if indeed
present with her body, had lost all sympathy with things of earth.
‘God help her!’ said he; ‘God comfort her! This is sore affliction.’
As he spoke he walked towards the little cabin, the door of which now
stood open. All was still and silent within its walls. Unused to see the
dwellings of the poor in Ireland, my eye ranged over the bare walls, the
damp and earthen floor, the few and miserable pieces of furniture, when
suddenly my attention was called to another and a sadder spectacle. In
one corner of the hovel, stretched upon a bed whose poverty might have
made it unworthy of a dog to lie in, lay the figure of a large and
powerfully-built man, stone dead. His eyes were dosed, his chin bound
up with a white cloth, and a sheet, torn and ragged, was stretched above
his cold limbs, while on either side of him two candles were burning.
His features, though rigid and stiffened, were manly and even
handsome--the bold character of the face heightened in effect by his
beard and moustache, which appeared to have been let grow for some time
previous, and whose black and waving curl looked darker from the pallor
around it.
Some lines there were about the mouth that looked like harshness and
severity, but the struggle of departing life might have caused them.
Gently withdrawing the sheet that covered him, the priest placed his
hand upon the man’s heart. It was evident to me, from the father’s
manner, that he still believed the man living; and as he rolled back the
covering, he felt for his hand. Suddenly starting, he fell back for an
instant; and as he moved his fingers backwards and forwards, I saw that
they were covered with blood. I drew near, and now perceived that the
dead man’s chest was laid open by a wound of several inches in extent.
The ribs had been cut across, and some portion of the heart or lung
seemed to protrude. At the slightest touch of the body, the blood gushed
forth anew, and ran in streams upon him. His right hand, too, was cut
across the entire palm, the thumb nearly severed at the joint. This
appeared to have been rudely bound together; but it was evident, from
the nature and the size of the other wound, that he could not have
survived it many hours.
As I looked in horror at the frightful spectacle before me, my foot
struck at something beneath the bed. I stooped down to examine, and
found it was a carbine, such as dragoons usually carry. It was broken
at the stock and bruised in many places, but still seemed not
unserviceable. Part of the butt-end was also stained with blood. The
clothes of the dead man, clotted and matted with gore, were also there,
adding by their terrible testimony to the dreadful fear that haunted me.
Yes, everything confirmed it--murder had been there.
A low, muttering sound near made me turn my head, and I saw the priest
kneeling beside the bed, engaged in prayer. His head was bare, and he
wore a kind of scarf of blue silk, and the small case that contained the
last rites of his Church was placed at his feet. Apparently lost to all
around, save the figure of the man that lay dead before him, he muttered
with ceaseless rapidity prayer after prayer--stopping ever and anon to
place his hand on the cold heart, or to listen with his ear upon the
livid lips; and then resuming with greater eagerness, while the big
drops rolled from his forehead, and the agonising torture he felt
convulsed his entire frame.
‘O God!’ he exclaimed, after a prayer of some minutes, in which his
features worked like one in a fit of epilepsy--‘O God, is it then too
late?’
[Illustration: 392]
He started to his feet as he spoke, and bending over the corpse, with
hands clasped above his head, he poured forth a whole torrent of
words in Irish, swaying his body backwards and forwards, as his voice,
becoming broken by emotion, now sank into a whisper, or broke into a
discordant shout. ‘Shaun, Shaun!’ cried he, as, stooping down to the
ground; he snatched up the little crucifix and held it before the dead
man’s face; at the same time he shook him violently by the shoulder,
and cried, in accents I can never forget, some words aloud, among which
alone I could recognise one word, ‘Thea’--the Irish word for God. He
shook the man till his head rocked heavily from side to side, and the
blood oozed from the opening wound, and stained the ragged covering of
the bed.
At this instant the priest stopped suddenly, and fell upon his knees,
while with a low, faint sigh he who seemed dead lifted his eyes and
looked around him; his hands grasped the sides of the bed, and, with
a strength that seemed supernatural, he raised himself to a sitting
posture. His lips were parted and moved, but without a sound, and his
filmy eyes turned slowly in their sockets from one object to another,
till at length they fell upon the little crucifix that had dropped from
the priest’s hand upon the bed. In an instant the corpse-like features
seemed inspired with life; a gleam of brightness shot from his eyes;
the head nodded forward a couple of times, and I thought I heard a
discordant, broken sound issue from the open mouth; but a moment after
the head dropped upon the chest, and the hands relaxed, and he fell back
with a crash, never to move more.
Overcome with horror, I staggered to the door and sank upon a little
bench in front of the cabin. The cool air of the night soon brought me
to myself, and while in my confused state I wondered if the whole might
not be some dreadful dream, my eyes once more fell upon the figure of
the woman, who still knelt in the attitude we had first seen her. Her
hands were clasped before her, and from time to time her wild cry
rose into the air and woke the echoes of that silent valley. A faint
moonlight lay in broken patches around her, and mingled its beams with
the red glare of the little candles within, as their light fell upon her
marble features. From the cabin I could hear the sounds of the priest’s
voice, as he continued to pray without ceasing.
As the hours rolled on, nothing changed; and when, prompted by
curiosity, I looked within the hovel, I saw the priest still kneeling
beside the bed, his face pale and sunk and haggard, as though months of
sickness and suffering had passed over him. I dared not speak; I dared
not disturb him; and I sat down near the door in silence.
It is one of the strange anomalies of our nature that the feelings which
rend our hearts with agony have a tendency, by their continuance, to
lull us into slumber. The watcher by the bedside of his dying friend,
the felon in his cell but a few hours before death, sleep--and sleep
soundly. The bitterness of grief would seem to blunt sensation, and the
mind, like the body, can only sustain a certain amount of burden, after
which it succumbs and yields. So I found it amid this scene of horror
and anguish, with everything to excite that can operate upon the
mind--the woman stricken motionless and senseless by grief; the dead
man, as it were, recalled to life by the words that were to herald
him into life everlasting; the old man, whom I had known but as a gay
companion, displayed now before my eyes in all the workings of his
feeling heart, called up by the afflictions of one world and the
terrors of another--and this in a wild and dreary valley, far from man’s
dwelling. Yet amid all this, and more than all, the harassing conviction
that some deed of blood, some dark hour of crime, had been here at work,
perhaps to be concealed for ever, and go unavenged save of Heaven--with
this around and about me, I slept. How long I know not; but when I woke,
the mist of morning hung in the valley, or rolled in masses of cloudlike
vapour along the mountain-side. In an instant the whole scene of the
previous night was before me, and the priest still knelt beside the bed
and prayed. I looked for the woman, but she was gone.
The noise of wheels, at some distance, could now be heard on the
mountain-road; and as I walked stealthily from the door, I could see
three figures descending the pass, followed by a car and horse. As
they came along, I marked that beneath the straw on the car something
protruded itself on either side, and this, I soon saw, was a coffin.
As the men approached the angle of the road they halted, and seemed to
converse in an eager and anxious manner, when suddenly one of them broke
from the others, and springing to the top of a low wall that skirted the
road, continued to look steadily at the house for some minutes together.
The thought flashed on me at the moment that perhaps my being a stranger
to them might have caused their hesitation; so I waved my hat a couple
of times above my head. Upon this they resumed their march, and in a few
minutes more were standing beside me. One of them, who was an old man
with hard, weather-beaten features, addressed me, first in Irish, but
correcting himself, at once asked, in a low, steady voice--
‘Was the priest in time? Did he get the rites?’
I nodded in reply; when he muttered, as if to himself--‘God’s will be
done! Shaun didn’t tell of Hogan----’
‘Whisht, father! whisht!’ said one of the younger men as he laid
his hand upon the old man’s arm, while he added something in Irish,
gesticulating with energy as he spoke.
‘Is Mary come back, sir?’ said the third, as he touched his hat to me
respectfully.
‘The woman--his wife?’ said I. ‘I have not seen her to-day.’
‘She was up with us, at Kiltimmon, at two o’clock this morning, but
wouldn’t wait for us. She wanted to get back at once, poor crayture! She
bears it well, and has a stout heart. ‘Faith, maybe before long she
‘ll make some others faint in their hearts that have stricken hers this
night.’
‘Was she calm, then?’ said I.
‘As you are this minute; and sure enough she helped me, with her own
hands, to put the horse in the car, for you see I couldn’t lift the
shaft with my one arm.’
I now saw that his arm was bound up, and buttoned within the bosom of
his greatcoat.
The priest now joined us, and spoke for several minutes in Irish; and
although ignorant of all he said, I could mark in the tone of his voice,
his look, his manner, and his gesture that his words were those of
rebuke and reprobation. The old man heard him in silence, but without
any evidence of feeling. The others, on the contrary, seemed deeply
affected; and the younger of the two, whose arm was broken, seemed
greatly moved, and the tears rolled down his hardy cheeks.
These signs of emotion were evidently displeasing to the old man, whose
nature was of a sterner and more cruel mould; and as he turned away from
the father’s admonition he moved past me, muttering, as he went--
‘Isn’t it all fair? Blood for blood; and sure they dhruv him to it.’
After a few words from the priest, two of the party took their spades
from the car, and began digging the grave; while Father Loftus, leading
the other aside, talked to him for some time.
‘Begorra,’ said the old man, as he shovelled the earth to either side,
‘Father Tom isn’t like himself, at all, at all. He used to have pity
and the kind word for the poor when they were turned out on the world
to starve, without as much as a sheaf of straw to lie upon, or potatoes
enough for the children to eat.’
‘Whisht, father! or the priest will hear ye,’ said the younger one,
looking cautiously around.
‘Sorrow bit o’ me cares if he does! it’s thruth I’m telling. You are not
long in these parts, sir, av I may make so bowld?’
‘No,’ said I, ‘I’m quite a stranger.’
‘Well, anyhow, ye may understand that this isn’t a fine soil for a
potato-garden; and yet the devil a other poor Shaun had since they
turned him out on the road last Michaelmas Day, himself and his wife and
the little gossoon--the only one they had, too--with a fever and ague
upon him. The poor child, however, didn’t feel it long, for he died in
ten days after. Well, well! the way of God there’s no saying against it.
But, sure, if the little boy didn’t die Shaun was off to America; for he
tuk his passage, and got a sea-chest of a friend, and was all ready
to go. But you see, when the child died, he could not bring himself
to leave the grave; and there he used to go and spend half of his days
fixing it, and settling the sods about it, and wouldn’t take a day’s
work from any of the neighbours. And at last he went off one night, and
we never knew what was become of him, till a pedlar brought word that
he and Mary was living in the Cluan Beg, away from everybody, without
a friend to say “God save you!” It’s deep enough now, Mickey; there’s
nobody will turn him out of this. And so, sir, he might have lived for
many a year; but when he heerd that the boys was up, and going to settle
a reckoning with Mr. Tarleton----’
‘Come, you,’ cried the priest, who joined us at the moment, and who
I could perceive was evidently displeased at the old man’s
communicativeness--‘come, you, the sooner you all get back the better.
We must look after Mary, too; for God knows where she is wandering. And
now let us put the poor boy in the earth.’
With slow and sullen steps the old man entered the house, followed by
the others. I did not accompany them, but stood beside the grave, my
mind full of all I heard. In a few minutes they returned, carrying the
coffin, one corner of which was borne by the priest himself. Their heads
were bare, and their features were pale and care-worn. They placed the
body in the grave, and gazed down after it for some seconds. The priest
spoke a few words in a low, broken voice, the very sounds of which,
though their meaning was unknown to me, sank deep into my heart. He
whispered for an instant to one of the young men, who went into the
cabin and speedily returned, carrying with him some of the clothes of
the deceased and the old carbine that lay beneath the bed.
‘Throw them in the grave, Mickey--throw them in,’ said the priest.
‘Where’s his coat?’
‘It isn’t there, sir,’ said the man. ‘That’s everything that has a mark
of blood upon it.’
‘Give me that gun,’ cried the priest; and at the same moment he took the
carbine by the end of the barrel, and by one stroke of his strong foot
snapped it at the breech. ‘My curse be on you!’ said he, as he kicked
the fragments into the grave; ‘there was peace and happiness in the land
before men knew ye, and owned ye! Ah, Hugh,’ said he, turning his eyes
fiercely on the old man, ‘I never said ye hadn’t griefs and trials, and
sore ones too, some of them; but God help you, if you think that an
easy conscience and a happy home can be bought by murder.’ The old man
started at the words, and as his dark brow lowered and his lip trembled,
I drew near to the priest, fearful lest an attack might be made on him.
‘Ay, murder, boys! that’s the word, and no less. Don’t tell me about
righting yourselves, and blood for blood, and all that. There’s a curse
upon the land where these things happen, and the earth is not lucky that
is moistened with the blood of God’s creatures.’
‘Cover him up! cover him up!’ said the old man, shovelling in the earth
so as to drown the priest’s words, ‘and let us be going. We ought to be
back by six o’clock, unless,’ added he with a sarcastic bitterness that
made him look like a fiend--‘unless your reverence is going to set the
police on our track.’
‘God forgive you, Hugh, and turn your heart,’ said the priest, as he
shook his outstretched hands at the old man. As the father spoke these
words he took me by the arm, and led me within the house. I could feel
his hand tremble as it leaned upon me, and the big tears rolled down his
cheeks in silence.
We sat down in the little cabin, but neither of us spoke. After some
time we heard the noise of the cartwheels and the sound of voices, which
grew fainter and fainter as they passed up the glen, and at length all
became still.
‘And the poor wife,’ said I, ‘what, think you, has become of her?’
‘Gone home to her people, most likely,’ answered the priest. ‘Her
misfortunes will make her a home in every cabin. None so poor, none so
wretched, as not to succour and shelter her. But let us hence.’
We walked forth from the hovel, and the priest closing the door after
him fastened it with a padlock that he had found within, and then,
placing the key upon the door-sill, he turned to depart; but suddenly
stopping, he took my hand in both of his, and said, in a voice of
touching earnestness--
‘This has been a sad scene. Would to God you had not witnessed it! Would
to God, rather, that it might not have occurred! But promise me, on the
faith of a man of honour and the word of a gentleman, that what you
have seen this night you will reveal to no man, until I have passed away
myself, and stand before that judgment to which we all are coming.’
‘I promise you faithfully,’ said I. ‘And now let us leave a spot
that has thrown a gloom upon my heart which a long life will never
obliterate.’
CHAPTER XXXV. THE JOURNEY
As we issued from the glen the country became more open; patches of
cultivation presented themselves, and an air of comfort and condition
superior to what we had hitherto seen was observable in the dwellings of
the country-people. The road lead through a broad valley bounded on one
side by a chain of lofty mountains, and on the other separated by
the Shannon from the swelling hills of Munster. Deeply engaged in our
thoughts, we travelled along for some miles without speaking. The scene
we had witnessed was of that kind that seemed to forbid our recurrence
to it, save in our own gloomy reflections. We had not gone far when the
noise of horsemen on the road behind us induced us to turn our heads.
They came along at a sharp trot, and we could soon perceive that
although the two or three foremost were civilians, they who followed
were dragoons. I thought I saw the priest change colour as the clank of
the accoutrements struck upon his ear. I had, however, but little time
for the observation, as the party soon overtook us.
‘You are early on the road, gentlemen,’ said a strong, powerfully-built
man, who, mounted upon a grey horse of great bone and action, rode close
up beside us.
‘Ah, Sir Thomas, is it you?’ said the priest, affecting at once his
former easy and indifferent manner. ‘I’d rather see the hounds at your
back than those beagles of King George there. Is there anything wrong in
the country?’
‘Let me ask you another question,’ said the knight in answer. ‘How long
have you been in it, and where did you pass the night, not to hear of
what has occurred?’
‘‘Faith, a home question,’ said the priest, summoning up a hearty laugh
to conceal his emotion; ‘but if the truth must out, we came round by the
priory at Glenduff, as my friend here being an Englishman--may I beg to
present him to you? Mr. Hinton, Sir Thomas Garland--he heard wonders
of the monks’ way of living up there, and I wished to let him judge for
himself.’
‘Ah, that accounts for it,’ said the tall man to himself. ‘We have had a
sad affair of it, Father Tom. Poor Tarleton has been murdered.’
‘Murdered!’ said the priest, with an expression of horror in his
countenance I could scarcely believe feigned.
‘Yes, murdered! The house was attacked a little after midnight. The
party must have been a large one, for while they forced in the hall
door, the haggard and the stables were seen in a blaze. Poor George
had just retired to bed, a little later than usual; for his sons had
returned a few hours before from Dublin, where they had been to attend
their college examination. The villains, however, knew the house well,
and made straight for his room. He got up in an instant, and seizing a
sabre that hung beside his bed, defended himself, with the courage of
desperation, against them all. The scuffle and the noise soon brought
his sons to the spot, who, although mere boys, behaved in the most
gallant manner. Overpowered at last by numbers, and covered with wounds,
they dragged poor Tarleton downstairs, shouting out as they went, “Bring
him down to Freney’s! Let the bloody villain see the black walls and
the cold hearth he has made, before he dies!” It was their intention to
murder him on the spot where, a few weeks before, a distress for rent
had been executed against some of his tenants. He grasped the banisters
with a despairing clutch, while fixing his eyes upon his servant, who
had lived with him for some years past, he called out to him in his
agony to save him; but the fellow came deliberately forward and held the
flame of a candle beneath the dying man’s fingers, until he relaxed his
hold and fell back among his murderers. Yes, yes, father, Henry Tarleton
saw it with his own eyes, for while his brother was stretched senseless
on the floor, he was struggling with the others at the head of the
staircase; and, strange enough too, they never hurt the boys, but when
they had wreaked their vengeance on the father, bound them back to back,
and left them.’
‘Can you identify any of them?’ said the priest, with intense emotion in
his voice and manner.
‘Scarcely, I fear; their faces were blackened, and they wore shirts over
their coats. Henry thinks he could swear to two or three of the number;
but our best chance of discovery lies in the fact that several of them
were badly wounded, and one in particular, whom he saw cut down by
his father’s sabre, was carried downstairs by his comrades, bathed in
blood.’
‘He didn’t recognise him?’ said the priest eagerly.
‘No; but here comes the poor boy, so I’ll wish you good-morning.’
He put spurs to his horse as he spoke and dashed forward, followed by
the dragoons; while at the same moment, on the opposite side of the
road, a young man--pale, with his dress disordered, his arm in a
sling--rode by. He never turned a look aside; his filmy eye was fixed,
as it were, on some far-off object, and he seemed scarce to guide his
horse as he galloped onward over the rugged road.
The priest relaxed his pace to permit the crowd of horsemen to pass
on, while his countenance once more assumed its drooping and despondent
look, and he relapsed into his former silence.
‘You see that high mountain to the left there?’ said he after a long
pause. ‘Well, our road lies around the foot of it; and, please God,
by to-morrow evening we ‘ll be some five-and-twenty miles on the other
side, in the heart of my own wild country, with the big mountains behind
you, and the great blue Atlantic rearing its frothing waves at your
feet.’ He stopped for an instant, and then grasping my arm with his
strong hand, continued in a low, distinct voice: ‘Never speak to me nor
question me about what we saw last night, and try only to remember it
as a dream. And now let me tell you how I intend to amuse you in the far
west.’
Here the priest began a spirited and interesting description of the
scenery and the people--their habits, their superstitions, and their
pastimes. He sustained the interest of his account with legend and
story, now grave, now gay--sometimes recalling a trait from the older
history of the land; sometimes detailing an incident of the fair or the
market, but always by his wonderful knowledge of the peasantry,
their modes of thinking and reasoning, and by his imitation of their
figurative and forcible expressions, able to carry me with him, whether
he took the mountain’s side for his path, sat beside some cotter’s
turf-fire, or skimmed along the surface of the summer sea in the frail
bark of an Achill fisherman. I learned from him that in the wild region
where he lived there were above fifteen thousand persons, scarce one of
whom could speak or understand a word of English. Of these he was not
only the priest, but the ruler and judge. Before him all their disputes
were settled, all their differences reconciled. His word, in the
strongest sense of the phrase, was law--not indeed to be enforced by
bayonets and policemen, by constables and sheriffs’ officers, but which
in its moral force demanded obedience, and would have made him who
resisted it an outcast among his fellows.
‘We are poor,’ said the priest, ‘but we are happy. Crime is unknown
among us, and the blood of man has not been shed in strife for fifty
years within the barony. When will ye learn this in England? When will
ye know that these people may be led, but never driven; that they may be
persuaded, but never compelled? When will ye condescend to bend so far
the prerogative of your birth, your riches, and your rank, as to reason
with the poor and humble peasant that looks up to you for protection?
Alas! my young friend, were you to ask me what is the great source of
misery of this unhappy land, I should tell you the superior intelligence
of its people. I see a smile, but hear me out. Unlike the peasantry of
other countries, they are not content. Their characters are mistaken,
their traits misconstrued---partly from indifference, partly from
prejudice, and in a great measure because it is the fashion to recognise
in the tiller of the soil a mere drudge, with scarce more intelligence
than the cattle in his plough or the oxen in his team. But here you
really have a people quick, sharp-sighted, and intelligent, able to
scan your motives with ten times the accuracy you can guess at theirs;
suspicious, because their credulity has been abused; revengeful, because
their wild nature knows no other vindicator than their own right arm;
lawless, for they look upon your institutions as the sources of their
misery and the instruments of your tyranny towards them; reckless, for
they have nothing to lose; indolent, for they have nothing to gain.
Without an effort to win their confidence or secure their good-will,
you overwhelm them with your institutions, cumbrous, complicated,
and unsuitable; and while you neglect or despise all appeal to their
feelings or affections, you place your faith in your soldiery or a
special commission. Heaven help you! you may thin them off by the
gallows and transportation, but the root of the evil is as far from you
as ever. You do not know them, you will not know them. More prone to
punish than prevent, you are satisfied with the working of the law, and
not shocked with the accumulation of crime; and when, broken by poverty
and paralysed by famine, a gloomy desolation spreads over the land, you
meet in terms of congratulation to talk over tranquilised Ireland.’
In this strain did the good priest continue to develop his views
concerning his country--the pivot of his argument being, that, to a
people so essentially different in every respect, English institutions
and English laws were inadequate and unsuitable. Sometimes I could
not only but agree with him. At others I could but dimly perceive his
meaning and dissent from the very little I could catch.
Enough of this, however. In a biography so flimsy as mine, politics
would play but an unseemly part; and even were it otherwise, my
opportunities were too few and my own incapacity too great to make my
opinions of any value on a subject so complicated and so vast. Still,
the topic served to shorten the road, and when towards evening we
found ourselves in the comfortable parlour of the little inn at
Ballyhocsousth,* so far had we both regained our spirits that once more
the priest’s jovial good-humour irradiated his happy countenance; and
I myself, hourly improving in health and strength, felt already the
bracing influence of the mountain air, and that strong sense of liberty
never more thoroughly appreciated than when regaining vigour after the
sufferings of a sick-bed.
* Town of the Fight of Flails.
We were seated by an open window, looking out upon the landscape. It was
past sunset, and the tall shadows of the mountains were meeting across
the lake, like spirits who waited for the night-hour to interchange
their embraces. A thin pale crescent of a new moon marked the blue sky,
but did not dim the lustre of the thousand stars that glittered round
it. All was hushed and still, save the deep note of the rail, or the
measured plash of oars heard from a long distance. The rich meadows that
sloped down to the water sent up their delicious odours in the balmy
air, and there stole over the senses a kind of calm and peaceful
pleasure as such a scene at such an hour can alone impart.
‘This is beautiful--this is very beautiful, father,’ said I.
‘So it is, sir,’ said the priest. ‘Let no Irishman wander for scenery;
he has as much right to go travel in search of wit and good fellowship.
We don’t want for blessings; all we need is, to know how to enjoy them.
And, believe me, there is a plentiful feast on the table if gentlemen
would only pass down the dishes. And, now, that reminds me: what are
you drinking--negus? I wouldn’t wish it to my greatest enemy. But, to be
sure, I am always forgetting you are not one of ourselves. There, reach
me over that square decanter. It wouldn’t have been so full now if we
had had poor Bob here--poor fellow! But one thing is certain---wherever
he is, he is happy. I believe I never told you how he got into his
present scrape.’
‘No, father; and that’s precisely the very thing I wish to ask you.’
‘You shall hear it, and it isn’t a bad story in its way. But don’t you
think the night-air is a little too much for you? Shall we close the
window?’
‘If it depend on me, father, pray leave it open.’
‘Ha, ha! I was forgetting again,’ said the old fellow, laughing
roguishly--‘_Stella sunt amantium oculi_, as Pharis says. There now,
don’t be blushing, but listen to me.
‘It was somewhere about last November that Bob got a quiet hint from
some one at Daly’s that the sooner he got out of Dublin the more
conducive it would be to his personal freedom, as various writs were
flying about the capital after him. He took the hint, and set off the
same night, and reached his beautiful château of Newgate without let
or molestation--which having victualled for the winter, he could, if
necessary, sustain in it a reasonable siege against any force the law
was likely to bring up. The house had an abundant supply of arms. There
were guns that figured in ‘41, pikes that had done good service a little
later, swords of every shape, from the two-handed weapon of the twelfth
century to a Roman pattern made out of a scythe by a smith in
the neighbourhood; but the grand terror of the country was an old
four-pounder of Cromwell’s time, that the Major had mounted on the roof,
and whose effects, if only proportionately injurious to the enemy to the
results nearer home, must indeed have been a formidable engine, for
the only time it was fired--I believe to celebrate Bob’s birthday--it
knocked down a chimney with the recoil, blew the gardener and another
man about ten feet into the air, and hurled Bob himself through a
skylight into the housekeeper’s room. No matter for that; it had a great
effect in raising the confidence of the country-people, some of whom
verily believed that the ball was rolling for a week after.
‘Bob, I say, victualled the fortress; but he did more, for he assembled
all the tenants, and in a short but pithy speech told them the state of
his affairs, explaining with considerable eloquence what a misfortune it
would be for them if by any chance they were to lose him for a landlord.
‘“See, now, boys,” said he, “there’s no knowing what misfortune wouldn’t
happen ye; they’d put a receiver on the property--a spalpeen with
bailiffs and constables after him--that would be making you pay up
the rent, and ‘faith I wouldn’t say but maybe he ‘d ask you for the
arrears.”
‘“Oh, murther, murther! did any one ever hear the like!” the people
cried on every side; and Bob, like a clever orator, continued to picture
forth additional miseries and misfortunes to them if such a calamitous
event were to happen, explaining at the same time the contemptible
nature of the persecution practised against him.
‘“No, boys,” cried he, “there isn’t a man among them all that has the
courage to come down and ask for his money, face to face; but they set
up a pair of fellows they call John Doe and Richard Roe--there’s names
for you! Did you ever hear of a gentleman in the country with names like
that? But that’s not the worst of it, for you see even these two chaps
can’t be found. It’s truth I’m telling you, and some people go so far
as to say that there is no such people at all, and it’s only a way they
have to worry and annoy country gentlemen with what they call a fiction
of the law; and my own notion is, that the law is nothing but lies and
fiction from beginning to end.”
‘A very loud cheer from Bob’s audience proclaimed how perfectly they
coincided in his opinion; and a keg of whisky being brought into the
lawn, each man drained a glass to his health, uttering at the same time
a determination with respect to the law-officers of the crown that boded
but little happiness to them when they made a tour in the neighbourhood.
‘In about a week after this there was a grand drawing-home: that’s, you
understand, what we call in Ireland bringing in the harvest. And sure
enough, the farmyard presented a very comely sight, with ricks of hay,
and stacks of corn and oats and barley, and outhouses full of potatoes,
and in fact everything the country produces, besides cows and horses,
sheep, pigs, goats, and even turkeys; for most of the tenants paid their
rents in kind, and as Bob was an easy landlord, very few came without a
little present--a game-cock, a jackass, a ram, or some amusing beast or
other. Well, the next day--it was a fine dry day with a light frost, and
as the bog was hard, Bob sent them all away to bring in the turf. Why,
then, but it is a beautiful sight, Captain, and I wish you saw it--maybe
two or three hundred cars all going as fast as they can pelt, on a fine
bright day, with a blue sky and a sharp air, the boys standing up in the
kishes driving without rein or halter, always at a gallop--for all the
world like Ajax, Ulysses, and the rest of them that we read of; and the
girls, as pretty craytures as ever you threw an eye upon, with their
short red petticoats, and their hair plaited and fastened up at the back
of their heads: on my conscience the Trojan women was nothing to them!
‘But to come back. Bob Mahon was coming home from the bog about five
o’clock in the evening, cantering along on a little dun pony he had,
thinking of nothing at all, except maybe the elegant rick of turf that
he ‘d be bringing home in the morning, when what did he see before him
but a troop of dragoons, and at their head old Basset, the sub-sheriff,
and another fellow whose face he had often seen in the Four Courts of
Dublin. “By the mortial,” said Bob, “I am done for!” for he saw in a
moment that Basset had waited until all the country-people were employed
at a distance, to come over and take him. However, he was no ways
discouraged, but brushing his way through the dragoons, he rode up
beside Basset’s gig, and taking a long pistol out of the holster, he
began to examine the priming as cool as may be.
“‘How are you, Nick Basset?” said Bob; “and where are you going this
evening?”
‘“How are you, Major?” said Basset, with his eye all the while upon the
pistol. “It is an unpleasant business, a mighty unpleasant business
to me, Major Bob,” says he; “but the truth is, there is an execution
against you, and my friend here, Mr. Hennessy--Mr. Hennessy, Major
Mahon--asked me to come over with him, because as I knew you----”
‘“Well, well,” said Bob, interrupting him. “Have you a writ against me?
Is it me you want?”
‘“Nothing of the kind, Major Mahon. God forbid we ‘d touch a hair of
your head. It’s just a kind of a capias, as I may say, nothing more.”
‘“And why did you bring the dragoons with you?” said Bob, looking at him
mighty hard.
‘Basset looked very sheepish, and didn’t know what to say; but Mahon
soon relieved him---
‘“Never mind, Nick, never mind; you can’t help your trade. But how would
you look if I was to raise the country on ye?”
‘“You wouldn’t do the like, Major; but surely, if you did, the
troops----”
‘“The troops!” said Bob; “God help you! we’d be twenty, ay, thirty to
one. See now, if I give a whistle, this minute----”
‘“Don’t distress yourself, Major,” said Basset, “for the decent people
are a good six miles off at the bog, and couldn’t hear you if you
whistled ever so loud.”
‘The moment he said this Bob saw that the old rogue was up to him, and
he began to wonder within himself what was best to be done.
‘“See now, Nick,” said he, “it isn’t like a friend to bring up all these
red-coats here upon me, before my tenantry, disgracing me in the face
of my people. Send them back to the town, and go up yourself with Mr.
Hennessy there, and do whatever you have to do.”
‘“No, no!” screamed Hennessy, “I’ll never part with the soldiers!”
‘“Very well,” said Bob, “take your own way, and see what will come of
it.”
‘He put spurs to his pony as he said this, and was just striking into
the gallop when Nick called out--
‘“Wait a bit, Major! wait a bit! If we leave the dragoons where we are
now, will you give us your word of honour not to hurt or molest us in
the discharge of our duty, nor let any one else do so?”
‘“I will,” said Bob, “now that you talk reasonably; I’ll treat you
well.”
‘After a little parley it was settled that part of the dragoons were
to wait on the road, and the rest of them in the lawn before the house,
while Nick and his friend were to go through the ceremony of seizing
Bob’s effects, and make an inventory of everything they could find.
‘“A mere matter of form, Major Mahon,” said he. “We ‘ll make it as short
as possible, and leave a couple of men in possession; and as I know the
affair will be arranged in a few days----”
‘“Of course,” says Bob, laughing; “nothing easier. So come along now and
let me show you the way.”
‘When they reached the house, Bob ordered up dinner at once, and behaved
as politely as possible, telling them it was early, and they would have
plenty of time for everything in the evening. But whether it was that
they had no appetite just then, or that they were not over-easy in their
minds about Bob himself, they declined everything, and began to set
about their work. To it they went with pen and ink, putting down all the
chairs and tables, the cracked china, the fire-irons, and at last Bob
left them counting over about twenty pairs of old top-boots that stood
along the wall of his dressing-room.
‘“Ned,” said Bob to his own man, “get two big padlocks and put them on
the door of the hayloft as fast as you can.”
‘“Sure it is empty, sir,” said Ned. “Barrin’ the rats, there’s nothing
in it.”
‘“Don’t I know that as well as you?” said Bob; “but can’t you do as you
are bid? And when you’ve done it, take the pony and gallop over to the
bog, and tell the people to throw the turf out of their carts and gallop
up here as fast as they can.”
‘He’d scarcely said it when Nick called out, “Now, Major, for the
farmyard, if you please.” And so taking Hennessy’s arm, Bob walked out,
followed by the two big bailiffs, that never left them for a moment.
To be sure it was a great sight when they got outside, and saw all
the ricks and stacks as thick as they could stand; and so they began
counting and putting them down on paper, and the devil a thing they
forgot, not even the boneens and the bantams; and at last Nick fixed
his eye upon the little door into the loft, upon which now two great big
padlocks were hanging.
‘“I suppose it ‘s oats you have up there, Major?” said he.
‘“No, indeed,” said Bob, looking a little confused.
‘“Maybe seed-potatoes?” said Hennessy.
‘“Nor it neither,” said he.
‘“Barley, it’s likely?” cried Nick; “it is a fine dry loft.”
‘“No,” said Bob, “it is empty.”
‘And with that he endeavoured to turn them away and get them back into
the house; but old Basset turned back, and fixing his eye upon the door,
shook his head for a couple of minutes.
‘“Well,” said he, “for an empty loft it has the finest pair of padlocks
I ever looked at. Would there be any objection, Major, to our taking a
peep into it?”
‘“None,” said Bob; “but I haven’t a ladder that long in the place.”
‘“I think this might reach,” said Hennessy, as he touched one with his
foot that lay close along the wall, partly covered with straw.
‘“Just the thing,” said Nick; while poor Bob hung down his head and
said nothing. With that they raised the ladder and placed it against the
door.
‘“Might I trouble you for the key, Major Mahon?” said Hennessy.
‘“I believe it is mislaid,” said Bob, in a kind of sulky way, at which
they both grinned at each other, as much as to say, “We have him now.”
‘“You ‘ll not take it amiss then, Major, if we break the door?” said
Nick.
‘“You may break it and be hanged!” said Bob, as he stuck his hands into
his pockets and walked away.
‘“This will do,” cried one of the bailiffs, taking up a big stone as he
mounted the ladder, followed by Nick, Hennessy, and the other.
[Illustration: 413]
‘It took some time to smash the locks, for they were both strong ones,
and all the while Nick and his friend were talking together in great
glee; but poor Bob stood by himself against a hayrick, looking as
melancholy as might be. At last the locks gave way, and down went the
door with a bang. The bailiffs stepped in, and then Nick and the other
followed. It took them a couple of minutes to satisfy themselves that
the loft was quite empty; but when they came back again to the door,
what was their surprise to discover that Bob was carrying away the
ladder upon his shoulders to a distant part of the yard.
‘“Holloa, Major!” cried Basset, “don’t forget us up here!”
‘“Devil a fear of that,” said Bob; “few that know you ever forget you.”
‘“We are quite satisfied, sir,” said Hennessy; “what you said was
perfectly correct.”
‘“And why didn’t you believe it before, Mr. Hennessy? You see what you
have brought upon yourself.”
‘“You are not going to leave us up here, sir,” cried Hennessy; “will you
venture upon false imprisonment?”
“‘I’d venture on more than that, if it were needful; but see now, when
you get back, don’t be pretending that I didn’t offer to treat you well,
little as you deserved it, I asked you to dinner, and would have given
you your skinful of wine afterwards; but you preferred your own dirty
calling, and so take the consequences.”
‘While he was speaking a great cheer was heard, and all the
country-people came galloping into the yard with their turf cars.
‘“Be alive now, my boys!” cried Bob. “How many cars have you?”
‘“Seventy, sir, here; but there is more coming.”
‘“That’ll do,” said he; “so now set to work and carry away all the oats
and the wheat, the hay, barley, and potatoes. Let some of you take the
calves and the pigs, and drive the bullocks over the mountain to Mr.
Bodkin’s. Don’t leave a turkey behind you, boys, and make haste; for
these gentlemen have so many engagements I can scarcely prevail on them
to pass more than a day or two amongst us.”
‘Bob pointed as he spoke to the four figures that stood trembling at the
hayloft door. A loud cheer, and a roar of laughter to the full as loud,
answered his speech; and at the same moment to it they went, loading
their cars with the harvest or the live-stock as fast as they could.
To be sure, such a scene was never witnessed--the sheep bleating, pigs
grunting, fowls cackling, men and women all running here and there
laughing like mad, and Nick Basset himself swearing like a trooper the
whole time that he’d have them all hanged at the next assizes. Would
you believe, the harvest it took nearly three weeks to bring home was
carried away that night and scattered all over the country at different
farms, where it never could be traced; all the cattle too were taken
away, and before sunrise there wasn’t as much as a sheep or a lamb left
to bleat on the lawn.
‘The next day Bob set out on a visit to a friend at some distance,
leaving directions with his people to liberate the gentlemen in the
hayloft in the course of the afternoon. The story made a great noise in
the country; but before people were tired laughing at it an action was
entered against Bob for false imprisonment, and heavy damages awarded
against him. So that you may see there was a kind of poetic justice in
the manner of his capture, for after all it was only trick for trick.’
The worthy priest now paused to mix another tumbler, which, when he had
stirred and tasted and stirred again, he pushed gently before him on the
table, and seemed lost in reverie.
‘Yes,’ said he half aloud, ‘it is a droll country we live in; and
there’s not one of us doesn’t waste more ingenuity and display more
cunning in getting rid of his fortune than the cleverest fellows
elsewhere evince in accumulating theirs. But you are looking a little
pale, I think; these late hours won’t suit you, so I ‘ll just send you
to bed.’
I felt the whole force of my kind friend’s advice, and yielding
obedience at once, I shook him by the hand and wished him good-night.
CHAPTER XXXVI. MURRANAKILTY
If my kind reader is not already tired of the mountain-road and the wild
west, may I ask him--dare I say her?--to accompany me a little farther,
while I present another picture of its life?
You see that bold mountain, jagged and rugged in outline, like the spine
of some gigantic beast, that runs far out into the Atlantic, and ends in
a bold, abrupt headland, against which the waves, from the very coast of
Labrador, are beating without one intervening rock to break their force?
Carry your eye along its base, to where you can mark a little clump of
alder and beech, with here and there a taper poplar interspersed, and
see if you cannot detect the gable of a long, low, thatched house, that
lies almost buried in the foliage. Before the door a little patch of
green stretches down to the shore, where a sandy beach, glowing in all
the richness of a morning sun, glitters with many a shell and brilliant
pebble. That, then, is Murranakilty.
But approach, I beg you, a little nearer. Let me suppose that you have
traced the winding of that little bay, crossing the wooden bridge over
the bright trout stream, as it hastens on to mingle its waters with the
ocean; you have climbed over the rude stile, and stopped for an instant
to look into the holy well, in whose glassy surface the little wooden
crucifix above is dimly shadowed, and at length you stand upon the lawn
before the cottage. What a glorious scene is now before you! On the
opposite side of the bay, the mountain, whose summit is lost among the
clouds, seems as it were cleft by some earthquake force; and through its
narrow gorge you can trace the blue water of the sea passing in, while
each side of the valley is clothed with wood. The oak of a hundred
years, here sheltered from the rude wind of the Atlantic, spreads its
luxuriant arms, while the frothy waves are breaking at its feet. High,
however, above their tops you may mark the irregular outline of a large
building, with battlements and towers and massive walls, and one tall
and loopholed turret, that rises high into the air, and around whose
summit the noisy rooks are circling in their flight. That is Kilmorran
Castle, the residence of Sir Simon Bellew. There, for centuries past,
his ancestors were born and died; there, in the midst of that wild and
desolate grandeur, the haughty descendants of an ancient house lived on
from youth to age, surrounded by all the observances of feudal state,
and lording it far and near, for many a mile, with a sway and power that
would seem to have long since passed away.
You carry your eye seaward, and I perceive your attention is fixed upon
the small schooner that lies anchored in the offing; her topsail is in
the clews, and flaps lazily against the mast, as she rolls and pitches
in the breaking surge. The rake of her low masts and the long boom that
stretches out far beyond her taffrail have, you deem it, a somewhat
suspicious look; and you are right. She is _La Belle Louise_, a
smuggling craft from Dieppe, whose crew, half French, half Irish, would
fight her to the gunwale, and sink with but never surrender her. You
hear the plash of oars, and there now you can mark the eight-oared gig
springing to the stroke, as it shoots from the shore and heads out to
sea. Sir Simon loves claret, and like a true old Irish gentleman he
drinks it from the wood; there may, therefore, be some reason why those
wild-looking red-caps have pulled in shore.
But now I’ll ask you to turn to an humbler scene, and look within that
room where the window, opened to the ground, is bordered by blossoming
honeysuckle. It is the priest’s parlour. At a little breakfast-table,
whose spotless cloth and neat but simple equipage has a look of
propriety and comfort, is seated one whose gorgeous dressing-gown and
lounging attitude seem strangely at variance with the humble objects
around him. He seems endeavouring to read a newspaper, which ever and
anon he lays down beside him, and turns his eyes in the direction of the
fire; for although it is July, yet a keen freshness of the morning air
makes the blazing turf by no means objectionable. He looks towards the
fire, perhaps you would say, lost in his own thoughts and musings; but
no, truth must out, and his attention is occupied in a very different
way. Kneeling before the fire is a young and lovely country-girl,
engaged in toasting a muffin for the priest’s breakfast. Her features
are flushed, partly with shame, partly with heat; and as now and then
she throws back her long hair from her face with an impatient toss of
her head, she steals a glance at the stranger from a pair of eyes so
deeply blue that at first you were unjust enough to think them black.
Her dress is a low bodice, and a short skirt of that brilliant dye the
Irish peasant of the west seems to possess the secret for. The jupe is
short, I say; and so much the better for you, as it displays a pair of
legs which, bare of shoe or stocking, are perfect in their symmetry--the
rounded instep and the swelling ankle chiselled as cleanly as a statue
of Canova.
And now, my good reader, having shown you all this, let me proceed with
my narrative.
‘And sure now, sir, wouldn’t it be better for you, and you sickly, to
be eating your breakfast, and not be waiting for Father Tom? Maybe he
wouldn’t come in this hour yet.’
‘No, thank you, Mary; I had rather wait. I hope you are not so tired of
my company that you want an excuse to get away?’
‘Ah, be aisy now, if you plaze, sir! It’s myself that’s proud to be
talking to you.’ And as she spoke she turned a pair of blue eyes upon me
with such a look that I could not help thinking if the gentlemen of
the west be exposed to such, their blood is not as hot as is reputed.
I suppose I looked as much; for she blushed deeply, and calling out,
‘Here’s Father Tom!’ sprang to her legs and hurried from the room.
‘Where are you scampering that way?’ cried the good priest, as he passed
her in the hall. ‘Ah, Captain, Captain! behave yourself!’
‘I protest, father----’ cried I.
‘To be sure you do! Why wouldn’t you protest? But see now, it was your
business brought me out this morning. Hand me over the eggs; I am
as hungry as a hawk. The devil is in that girl--they are as hard as
bullets! I see how it was, plain enough. It’s little she was thinking of
the same eggs. Well, well! this is an ungrateful world; and only think
of me, all I was doing for you.’
‘My dear father, you are quite wrong----’
‘No matter. Another slice of bacon. And, after all, who knows if I
have the worst of it? Do you know, now, that Miss Bellew has about the
softest cheek----’
‘What the devil do you mean?’ said I, reddening. ‘Why, just that I was
saluting her _à la Française_ this morning; and I never saw her look
handsomer in my life. It was scarce seven o’clock when I was over at
Kilmorran, but, early as it was, I caught her making breakfast for me;
and, father and priest that I am, I couldn’t help feeling in love with
her. It was a beautiful sight just to watch her light step and graceful
figure moving about the parlour--now opening the window to let in the
fresh air of the morning; now arranging a bouquet of moss-roses; now
busying herself among the breakfast things, and all the while stealing a
glance at Sir Simon, to see if he were pleased with what she was doing.
He’ll be over here by-and-by, to call on you; and, indeed, it is an
attention he seldom pays any one, for latterly, poor fellow, he is not
over satisfied with the world--and if the truth were told, he has not
had too much cause to be so.’
‘You mentioned to him, then, that I was here?’ ‘To be sure I did; and
the doing so cost me a scalded finger; for Miss Louisa, who was pouring
out my tea at the moment, gave a jerk with her hand, and spilled the
boiling water all over me.--Bad cess to you, Mary, but you’ve spoiled
the toast this morning! half of it never saw the fire, and the other
half is as black as my boot.--But, as I was saying, Sir Simon knows all
about you, and is coming over to ask us to dine there--though I offered
to give the invitation myself, and accept it first; but he is very
punctilious about these things, and wouldn’t hear of anything but doing
it in the regular way.’
‘Did he allude to Mr. Ulick Burke’s affair?’
‘Not a word. And even when I wished to touch on it for the sake of
a little explanation, he adroitly turned the subject, and spoke of
something else. But it is drawing late, and I have some people to see
this morning; so come along now into my little library here, and I’ll
leave you for a while to amuse yourself.’
The priest led me, as he spoke, into a small room, whose walls were
covered with books from the floor to the ceiling; even the very door
by which we entered had its shelves, like the rest, so that when once
inside you could see no trace of it. A single window looked seaward,
towards the wide Atlantic, and presented a view of many miles of coast,
indented with headland and promontory. Beneath, upon the placid sea, was
a whole fleet of fishing-boats, the crews of which were busily engaged
in collecting the sea-weed to manure the land. The sight was both
curious and picturesque. The light boats, tossing on the heavy swell,
were crowded with figures whose attitude evinced all the eagerness of a
chase. Sometimes an amicable contest would arise between two parties, as
their boat-hooks were fixed in the same mass of tangled weed. Sometimes
two rival crews would be seen stretching upon their oars, as they headed
out to sea in search of a new prize. The merry voices and the loud
laughter, however, that rose above all other sounds, told that
good-humour and goodwill never deserted them in all the ardour of the
contest.
Long after the priest left me, I continued to watch them. At last I set
myself to explore the good father’s shelves, which I found, for the most
part, were filled with portly tomes of divinity and polemics--huge folio
copies of Saint Augustine, Origen, Eusebius, and others; innumerable
volumes of learned tractates on disputed points in theology--none of
which possessed any interest for me. In one corner, however, beside the
fire, whose convenience to the habitual seat of Father Tom argued that
they were not least in favour with his reverence, was an admirable
collection of the French dramatists--Molière, Beaumarchais, Racine, and
several more. These were a real treat; and seating myself beside the
window, I prepared, for about the twentieth time in my life, to read _La
Folle Journée_.
I had scarcely got to the end of the second act, when the door was
gently opened, and Mary made her appearance--not in the deshabille of
the morning, however, but with a trim cotton gown, and smart shoes and
stockings; her hair, too, was neatly dressed, in the country fashion.
Yet still I was more than half disposed to think she looked even better
in her morning costume.
The critical scrutiny of my glance had evidently disconcerted her, and
made her, for the moment, forget the object of her coming. She looked
down and blushed; she fiddled with the corner of her apron, and at last,
recollecting herself, she dropped a little curtsy, and, opening the door
wide, announced Sir Simon Bellew.
‘Mr. Hinton, I believe,’ said Sir Simon, with a slight smile, as he
bowed himself into the apartment; ‘will you allow me to introduce
myself--Sir Simon Bellew.’
The baronet was a tall, thin, meagre-looking old man, somewhat stooped
by age, but preserving, both in look and gesture, not only the remains
of good looks, but the evident traces of one habituated to the world.
His dress was very plain; but the scrupulous exactitude of his powdered
cue, and the massive gold-headed cane he carried, showed he had not
abandoned those marks of his position so distinctive of rank in those
days. He wore, also, large and handsome buckles in his shoes; but in
every other particular his costume was simplicity itself. Conversing
with an ease which evinced his acquaintance with all the forms of
society, he touched shortly upon my former acquaintance with his
daughter, and acknowledged in terms slight, but suitable, how she had
spoken of me. His manner was, however, less marked by everything I had
deemed to be Irish than that of any other person I had met with in the
country; for while he expressed his pleasure at my visit to the west,
and invited me to pass some days at his house, his manner of doing so
had nothing whatever of the warmth and _empressement_ I had so often
seen. In fact, save a slight difference in accent, it was as English as
need be.
Whether I felt disappointed at this, or whether I had myself adopted the
habite and prejudices of the land, I am unable to say, but certainly
I felt chilled and repulsed; and although our interview scarce lasted
twenty minutes, I was delighted when he rose to take his leave, and say,
good-morning.
‘You are good enough, then, to promise you ‘ll dine with us to-morrow,
Mr. Hinton. I need scarcely remark that I can have no party to meet you,
for this wild neighbourhood has denied us that; but as I am aware that
your visit to the west is less for society than scenery, perhaps I may
assure you you will not be disappointed. So now, _au revoir_.’ Sir Simon
bowed deeply as he spoke, and, with a wave of his hat that would have
done honour to the court of Louis xv., he took his leave and departed.
I followed him with my eye, as mounted on his old gray pony, he ambled
quietly down the little path that led to the shore. Albeit an old man,
his seat was firm, and not without a certain air of self-possession and
ease; and as he returned the salutations of the passing country-people,
he did so with the quiet dignity of one who felt he conveyed an honour
even in the recognition. There was something singular in the contrast
of that venerable figure with the wild grandeur of the scene; and as I
gazed after him, it set me thinking on the strange vicissitudes of life
that must have made such as he pass his days in the dreary solitude of
these mountains.
CHAPTER XXXVII. SIR SIMON
My journey had so far fatigued me that I wasn’t sorry to have a day of
rest; and as Father Tom spent the greater part of it from home, I was
left to myself and my own reflections. The situation in which I found
myself was singular enough--the guest of a man whose acquaintance I had
made by chance, and who, knowing as little of me as I did of him,
yet showed by many an act of kindness, not less than by many a chance
observation, a deep interest in myself and my fortunes. Here, then,
I was--far from the sphere of my duties, neglecting the career I had
adopted, and suffering days, weeks, to pass over without bestowing a
thought upon my soldier life.
Following on this train of thought, I could not help acknowledging to
myself that my attachment to Miss Bellew was the cause of my journey,
and the real reason of my wandering. However sanguine may be the heart
when touched by the first passion, the doubts that will now and then
shoot across it are painful and poignant; and now, in the calmness of my
judgment, I could not but see the innumerable obstacles my family
would raise to all my hopes. I well knew my father’s predilection for a
campaigning life, and that nothing would compensate him for the
defeat of this expectation. I had but too many proofs of my mother’s
aristocratic prejudices to suppose that she ever could acknowledge as
her daughter-in-law one whose pretensions to rank, although higher
than her own, were yet neither trumpeted by the world nor blazoned
by fashion. And lastly, changed as I was myself since my arrival in
Ireland, there was yet enough of the Englishman left in me to see how
unsuited was Louisa Bellew, in many respects, to be launched forth in
the torrent of London life, while yet her experience of the world was so
narrow and limited. Still, I loved her. The very artless simplicity of
her manner, the untutored freshness of her mind, had taught me to know
that even great personal attractions may be the second excellence of
a woman. And besides, I was just at that time of life when ambition is
least natural. One deems it more heroic to renounce all that is daring
in enterprise, all that is great in promise, merely to be loved. My mind
was therefore made up. The present opportunity was a good one to see her
frequently and learn thoroughly to know her tastes and her dispositions.
Should I succeed in gaining her affections, however opposed my family
might prove at first, I calculated on their fondness for me as an only
son, and knew that in regard to fortune I should be independent enough
to marry whom I pleased.
In speculations such as these the time passed over; and although I
waited with impatience for the hour of our visit to Kilmorran Castle,
still, as the time drew near, many a passing doubt would flit across
me--how far I had mistaken the promptings of my own affection for any
return of my love. True it was, that more than once Louisa’s look and
manner testified I was not indifferent to her; still, when I remembered
that I had ever seen her surrounded by persons she was anxious to avoid,
a suspicion crossed me that perhaps I owed the little preference
she showed me less to any qualities I possessed than to my own
unobtrusiveness. These were galling and unpleasant reflections; and
whither they might have led me I know not, when the priest tapped with
his knuckles at my window, and called out--
‘Captain, we shall be late if you don’t hurry a bit; and I had rather be
behind time with his gracious Majesty himself than with old Sir Simon.’
I opened the window at once, and jumped out into the lawn.
‘My dear father, I’ve been ready this half-hour, but fell into a dreamy
fit and forgot everything. Are we to walk it?’
‘No, no; the distance is much greater than you think. Small as the bay
looks, it is a good three miles from this to Kilmorran; but here comes
your old friend the curriculus.’
I once more mounted to my old seat, and the priest, guiding the horse
down to the beach, selected the strand, from which the waves had just
receded, as the hardest road, and pressed on at a pace that showed his
desire to be punctual.
‘Get along there. Nabocklish! How lazy the devil is! ‘Faith, we’ll be
late, do our best. Captain, darling, put your watch back a quarter of an
hour, and I’ll stand to it that we are both by Dublin time.’
‘Is he, then, so very particular/ said I, ‘as all that comes to?’
‘Particular, is it? ‘Faith he is. Why, man, there is as much ringing
of bells before dinner in that house as if every room in it was crammed
with company. And the old butler will be there, all in black, and his
hair powdered, and beautiful silk stockings on his legs, every day in
the week, although, maybe, it is a brace of snipe will be all that is on
the table. Take the whip for a while, and lay into that baste--my heart
is broke flogging him.’
Had Sir Simon only watched the good priest’s exertions for the preceding
quarter of an hour, he certainly would have had a hard heart if he
had criticised his punctuality. Shouting one moment, cursing the next,
thrashing away with his whip, and betimes striding over the splash-board
to give a kick with his foot, he undoubtedly spared nothing in either
voice or gesture.
‘There, glory be to God!’ cried he at last, as he turned sharp from the
shady road into a narrow avenue of tall lime-trees; ‘take the reins,
Captain, till I wipe my face. Blessed hour, look at the state I am in!
Lift him to it, and don’t spare him. May I never, if that isn’t the last
bell, and he only gives five minutes after that!’
Although I certainly should have preferred that Father Tom had continued
his functions as charioteer now that we were approaching the house,
common humanity, however, compelled me to spare him, and I flogged and
chucked the old beast with all my might up the rising ground towards
the house. I had but just time to see that the building before us was
a large embattled structure, which, although irregular and occasionally
incongruous in detail, was yet a fine specimen of the castellated Gothic
of the seventeenth century. Massive square towers flanked the angles,
themselves surmounted by smaller turrets, that shot up into the air high
above the dark woods around them. The whole was surrounded by a fosse,
now dry, and overgrown with weeds; but the terrace, which lay between
this and the castle, was laid out as a flower-garden, with a degree of
taste and beauty that to my mind at least bespoke the fostering hand of
Louisa Bellew. Upon this the windows of a large drawing-room opened, at
one of which I could mark the tall and stately figure of Sir Simon, as
he stood, watch in hand, awaiting our arrival. I confess, it was not
without a sense of shame that I continued my flagellations at
the moment. Under any circumstances, our turn-out was not quite
unexceptionable; but when I thought of my own position, and of the
good priest who sat beside me mopping his head and face with a huge red
cotton handkerchief, I cursed my stars for the absurd exposure. Just at
this instant the skirt of a white robe passed one of the windows, and I
thought--I hope it was but a thought--I heard a sound of laughter.
‘There, that will do. Phoebus himself couldn’t do it better. I wouldn’t
wish my worst enemy to be in a pair of shafts before you.’
Muttering a curse on the confounded beast, I pulled short up and sprang
out.
‘Not late, Nicholas, I hope?’ said the priest to a tall, thin old
butler, who bore a most absurd resemblance to his master.
‘Your reverence has a minute and a half yet; but the soup’s on
the table.’ As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a small bit of
looking-glass, in a wooden frame, and with a pocket-comb arranged his
hair in a most orderly and decorous manner; which being done, he turned
gravely round and said, ‘Are ye ready, now, gentlemen?’
The priest nodded, and forward we went. Passing through a suite of rooms
whose furniture, however handsome once, was now worm-eaten and injured
by time, we at length reached the door of the drawing-room, when the
butler, after throwing one more glance at us to assure himself that we
were in presentable array, flung the door wide open, and announced, with
the voice of a king-at-arms--
‘The Reverend Father Loftus, and Mr. Hinton.’
‘Serve!’ said Sir Simon, with a wave of his hand. While, advancing
towards us, he received us with most polished courtesy. ‘You are most
welcome to Kilmorran, Mr. Hinton. I need not present my daughter.’
He turned towards the priest, and the same moment I held Miss Bellow’s
hand in mine. Dressed in white, and with her hair plainly braided on her
cheek, I thought she looked handsomer than I had ever seen her. There
was an air of assured calmness in her manner that sat well upon her
lovely features, as, with a tone of winning sweetness, she seconded the
words of her father, and welcomed me to Kilmorran.
The first step in the knowledge of the female heart is to know how to
interpret any constraint or reserve of manner on the part of the woman
you are in love with. Your mere novice is never more tempted to despair
than at the precise moment his hopes should grow stronger; nor is he
ever so sanguine as when the prospect is gloomy before him. The quick
perceptions of even a very young girl enable her to perceive when she
is loved; and however disposed she may feel towards the individual, a
certain mixture of womanly pride and coquetry will teach her a kind of
reserve towards him. Now, there was a slight dash of this constrained
tone through Miss Bellow’s manner to me; and little experience as I had
had in such matters, I knew enough to augur favourably from it. While
doing the honours of her house, a passing timidity would seem every now
and then to check her advances, and I could remark how carefully she
avoided any allusion, however slight, to our past acquaintance.
The austerity of Sir Simon’s manner at his first visit, as well as
the remarks of my friend the priest, had led me to suspect that our
dinner-party would prove cold, formal, and uncomfortable; indeed, the
baronet’s constrained and measured courtesy in the drawing-room gave
me but little encouragement to expect anything better. Most agreeable,
therefore, was my disappointment to find that before the soup was
removed he had thawed considerably. The stern wrinkles of his haughty
face relaxed, and a bland and good-humoured smile had usurped the place
of his former fixed and determined look. Doing the honours of his table
with the most perfect tact, he contrived, while almost monopolising
the conversation, to appear the least obtrusive amongst us; his remarks
being ever accompanied by some appeal to his daughter, the priest, or
myself, seemed to link us in the interest of all he said, and make
his very listeners deem themselves entertaining and agreeable.
Unfortunately, I can present but a very meagre picture of this happy
gift; but I remember well how insensibly my prejudices gave way, one
by one, as I listened to his anecdotes, and heard him recount, with
admirable humour, many a story of his early career. To be sure, it
may be said that my criticism was not likely to be severe while seated
beside his beautiful daughter, whose cheek glowed with pleasure,
and whose bright eye glistened with added lustre as she remarked the
impression her father’s agree-ability was making on his guests. Such
may, I doubt not, have increased the delight I felt; but Sir Simon’s own
claims were still indisputable.
I know not how far I shall meet my reader’s concurrence in the remark,
but it appears to me that conversational talent, like wine, requires
age to make it mellow. The racy flavour that smacks of long knowledge
of life, the reflective tone that deepens without darkening the picture,
the freedom from exaggeration either in praise or censure, are not
the gifts of young men, usually; and certainly they do season the
intercourse of older ones, greatly to its advantage. There is, moreover,
a pleasant flattery in listening to the narratives of those who
were mixing with the busy world--its intrigues, its battles, and its
byplay--while we were but boys. How we like to hear of the social
everyday life of those great men of a bygone day, whose names have
become already historical; what a charm does it lend to reminiscence,
when the names of Burke, Sheridan, Grattan, and Curran start up amid
memories of youthful pleasure; and how we treasure every passing word
that is transmitted to us, and how much, in spite of all the glorious
successes of their after days, do we picture them to ourselves, from
some slight or shadowy trait of their school or college life!
Sir Simon Bellow’s conversation abounded in features of this kind. His
career had begun and continued for a long time in the brightest period
of Ireland’s history--when wealth and genius were rife in the land, and
when the joyous traits of Irish character were elicited in all their
force by prosperity and happiness. It was then shone forth in all their
brilliancy the great spirits whose flashing wit and glittering fancy
have cast a sunlight over their native country that even now, in the
twilight of the past, continues to illumine it. Alas! they have had no
heritors to their fame; they have left no successors behind them.
I have said that Miss Bellew listened with delight to all her father’s
stores of amusement--happy to see him once more aroused to the exertion
of his abilities, and pleased to watch how successfully his manner
had won over us. With what added loveliness she looked up to him as
he narrated some circumstances of his political career, where his
importance with his party was briefly alluded to; and how proudly her
features glowed, as some passing sentiment of high and simple patriotism
would break from him! At such moments, the resemblance between them both
became remarkably striking, and I deemed her even more beautiful than
when her face wore its habitual calm and peaceful expression.
Father Loftus himself seemed also to have undergone a change--no
longer indulging in his accustomed free-and-easy manner, seasoning
his conversation with droll allusions and sly jokes. He now appeared a
shrewd, intelligent reasoner, a well-informed man of the world, and at
times evidenced traits of reading and scholarship I was nowise prepared
for. But how vain is it for one of any other country to fathom one half
the depth of Irish character, or say what part is inapplicable to an
Irishman! My own conviction is that we are all mistaken in our estimate
of them; that the gay and reckless spirit, the wild fun, and frantic,
impetuous devilment are their least remarkable features, and in
fact only the outside emblem of the stirring nature within. Like the
lightning that flashes over the thunder-cloud, but neither influences
the breaking of the storm nor points to its course, so have I seen the
jest break from lips pale with hunger, and heard the laugh come free
and mellow when the heart was breaking in misery. But what a mockery of
mirth!
When we retired to the drawing-room, Sir Simon, who had something to
communicate to Father Tom, took him apart into one of the deep window
recesses, and I was left for the first time alone beside Miss Bellew.
There was something of awkwardness in the situation; for as neither
of us could allude to the past without evoking recollections we both
shunned to touch on, we knew not well of what to speak. The window lay
open to the ground, displaying before us a garden in all the richness of
fruit and blossom; the clustering honeysuckle and the dog-rose hung in
masses of flower across the casement, and the graceful hyacinth and the
deep carnation were bending to the night-air, scented with the odour of
many a flower. I looked wistfully without. Miss Bellew caught my glance;
a slight hesitation followed, and then, as if assuming more courage, she
said--
‘Are you fond of a garden? Would you like a walk?’
The haste with which I caught at the proposal half disconcerted her;
but, with a slight smile, she stepped out into the walk.
How I do like a large, old-fashioned garden with its venerable
fruit-trees, its shady alleys, its overgrown and tangled beds, in which
the very luxuriance sets all effort of art at defiance, and where rank
growth speaks of wild-ness rather than culture! I like those grassy
walks, where the footstep falls unheard; those shady thickets of
nut-trees, which the blackbird haunts in security, and where the thrush
sings undisturbed. What a sense of quiet home-happiness there breathes
in the leafy darkness of the spot, and how meet for reverie and
reflection does it seem!
As I sauntered along beside my companion, these thoughts crowded on me.
Neither spoke; but her arm was in mine, our footsteps moved in unison,
our eyes followed the same objects, and I felt as though our hearts beat
responsively. On turning from one of the darker walks we suddenly came
upon an elevated spot, from which, through an opening in the wood, the
coast came into view, broken into many a rocky promontory, and dotted
with small islands. The sea was calm and waveless, and stretched away
towards the horizon in one mass of unbroken blue, where it blended with
the sky. An exclamation of ‘How beautiful!’ broke from me at once; and
as I turned towards Louisa, I perceived that her eyes sparkled with
pleasure, and a half blush was mantling her cheek.
‘You are not, then, disappointed with the west?’ said she, with
animation.
‘No, no! I did not look for anything like this; nor,’ added I, in a
lower tone, while the words trembled on my lips, ‘did I hope to enjoy it
thus.’
She seemed slightly confused, but with woman’s readiness to turn the
meaning of my speech, added--
‘Your recovery from illness doubtless gives a heightened pleasure to
everything like this. The dark hour of sickness is often needed to teach
us to feel strongly as we ought the beauty of the fair world we live
in.’
‘It may be so; but still I find that every sorrow leaves a scar upon the
heart, and he who has mourned much loses the zest for happiness.’
‘Or, rather, his views of it are different. I speak, happily for me, in
ignorance; yet it seems as though every trial in life was a preparation
for some higher scale of blissful enjoyment; and that as our
understandings mature in power, so do our hearts in goodness--chastening
at each ordeal of life, till at last the final sorrow, death, bids us
prepare for the eternity where there is no longer grief, and where the
weary are at rest.’
‘Is not your view of life rather derived from the happy experience of
this quiet spot than suited for the collisions of the world, where, as
men grow older, their consciences grow more seared, their hearts less
open?’
‘Perhaps; but is not my philosophy a good one that fits me for my
station? My life has been cast here; I have no wish to leave it. I hope
I never shall.’
‘Never! Surely, you would like to see other countries,--to travel?’
‘No, no! All the brilliant pleasures you can picture for me would never
requite the fears I must suffer lest these objects should grow less dear
to me when I came back to them. The Tyrol is doubtless grander in its
wild magnificence; but can it ever come home to my heart with so many
affections and memories as these bold cliffs I have gazed on in my
infancy; or should I benefit in happiness if it did? Can your Swiss
peasant, be his costume ever so picturesque, interest me one half as
much as yonder poor fisherman, who is carrying up his little child in
his arms from the beach? I know him, his home, his hearth; I have
seen his grateful smile for some small benefit, and heard his words of
thankfulness. And think you not that such recollections as these are all
mingled in every glance I throw around me, and that every sunlit spot
of landscape shines not more brightly in my heart for its human
associations? These may be narrow prejudices--I see you smile at me.’
‘No, no! Trust me, I do not undervalue your reasons.’
‘Well, here comes Father Loftus, and he shall be judge between us.
We were discussing the advantages of contrasting our home with other
countries----’
‘Ahem! A very difficult point,’ said the priest, interrupting her, and
drawing himself up with a great air of judicial importance. ‘_Ubi bene,
ibi patria_--which may be rendered, “There’s potatoes everywhere.” Not
that I incline to the doctrine myself. Ireland is the only enjoyable
country I know of. _Utamur creatura, dum possumus_--that means “a
moderate use of creature comforts,” Miss Louisa. But, troth, I’m
so heated with an argument I had with Sir Simon, that I’m no ways
competent---- Did I tell you he was waiting for his tea?’
‘No, indeed you did not,’ said Miss Bellew, giving vent to a laugh she
had been struggling against for the last few minutes; and which I did
not at the moment know was caused by her perceiving the priest’s air of
chagrin and discontent, the evident proofs of his being worsted by the
old baronet, whose chief pleasure in life was to worry the father into a
discussion, and either confuse or confute him. ‘My father seems in such
good spirits to-night! Don’t you think so?’ said she roguishly, looking
over at the priest.
‘Never saw him better; quite lively and animated, and’--dropping his
voice to a whisper---‘as obstinate as ever.’
As we entered the house we found Sir Simon walking leisurely up and down
the drawing-room, with his hands behind his back, his face radiant with
smiles, and his eye gleaming with conscious triumph towards the corner
where the priest stood tumbling over some books to conceal his sense of
defeat. In a few minutes after we were seated round the tea-table; the
little cloud was dispelled, and a happier party it was difficult to
imagine.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. ST. SENAN’S WELL
How shall I trace this, the happiest period of my life, when days and
weeks rolled on and left no trace behind, save in that delicious calm
that stole over my senses gradually and imperceptibly! Each morning saw
me on my way to Castle Bellew. The mountain path that led up from the
little strand was well worn by my footsteps; I knew its every turn and
winding; scarcely a dog-rose bloomed along the way with which I had not
grown familiar. And how each object spoke to my heart! For I was happy.
The clouds that moved above, the rippling tide that flowed beneath, the
sunny shore, the shady thicket, were all to me as though I had known
them from boyhood. For so it is, in our glad moments we cling to
all things that surround us; and giving to external Nature the high
colouring of our own hearts, we feel how beautiful is this world.
Yet was my mind not all tranquil; for often, as I hastened on, some
passing thought would shoot across me. Where is this to end? Can I hope
ever to overcome the deep-rooted prejudices of my family, and induce
them to receive amongst them as my wife the beautiful and artless
daughter of the wild west? Or could I dare to expose her, on whom all
my affections were centred, to the callous criticism of my fine
lady-mother, and her fashionable friends in London? What right had I
to stake Louisa’s happiness on such a chance--to take her from all
the objects endeared to her by taste, by time, by long-hallowed
associations, and place her amid those among whom the very charm of her
untarnished nature would have made her their inferior? Is it that trait
of rebellious spirit that would seem to leaven every portion of our
nature which makes our love strongest when some powerful barrier has
been opposed to our hopes and wishes; or is it, rather, that in the
difficulties and trials of life we discover those deeper resources of
our hearts, that under happier auspices had lain dormant and unknown?
I scarcely know; but true it is, after such reflections as these I ever
hurried on the faster to meet Louisa, more resolutely bent than ever, in
weal or woe, to link my fortune with her own.
Though I returned each night to the priest’s cottage, my days were
entirely spent at Castle Bellew. How well do I remember every little
incident that marked their tranquil course! The small breakfast-parlour,
with its old Tudor window looking out upon the flower-garden--how often
have I paced it, impatient for her coming; turning ever and anon to the
opening door, where the old butler, with the invariable habitude of his
kind, continually appeared with some portion of the breakfast equipage!
How I started, as some distant door would shut or open, some far-off
footstep sound upon the stair, and wonder within myself why she felt not
some of this impatient longing! And when at last, tortured with anxiety
and disappointment, I had turned away towards the window, the gentle
step, the rustling dress, and, more than all, the indescribable
something that tells us we are near those we love, bespoke her
coming--oh, the transport of that moment! With what a fervid glow of
pleasure I sprang to meet her, to touch her hand, to look upon her! How
rapidly, too, I endeavoured to speak my few words of greeting, lest her
father’s coming might interfere with even this short-lived period
of happiness; and, after all, how little meaning were in the words
themselves, save in the tone I spoke them!
Then followed our rambles through the large but neglected garden, where
the rich blossoming fruit-tree scented the air, loaded with all the
fragrance of many a wild flower. Now strolling onwards, silent, but full
of thought, we trod some dark and shaded alley; now we entered upon some
open glade, where a view of the far-off mountains would break upon us,
or where some chance vista showed the deep-blue sunny sea swelling with
sullen roar against the rocky coast. How often, at such times as these,
have I asked myself if I could look for greater happiness than thus to
ramble on, turning from the stupendous majesty of Nature to look into
her eyes whose glance met mine so full of tender meaning, while words
would pass between us, few and low-voiced, but all so thrilling; their
very accents spoke of love!
Yet, amid all this, some agonising doubt would shoot across me that my
affection was not returned. The very frankness of her nature made me
fear; and when we parted at night, and I held my homeward way towards
the priest’s cottage, I would stop from time to time, conning over every
word she spoke, calling to mind each trivial circumstance; and if by
accident some passing word of jest» some look of raillery, recurred to
my memory, how have the warm tears rushed to my eyes, as with my heart
full to bursting I muttered to myself, ‘She loves me not!’ These fears
would then give way to hope, as in my mind’s eye she stood before me,
all beaming in smiles. And amid these alternate emotions, I trod my
lonely path, longing for the morrow when we should meet again, when I
vowed within my heart to end my life of doubt by asking if she loved me.
But with that morrow came the same spell of happiness that lulled me;
and like the gambler who had set his life upon the die, and durst not
throw, so did I turn with trembling fear from tempting the chance that
might in a moment dispel the bright dream of my existence, and leave
life bleak and barren to me for ever.
The month of August was drawing to a close, as we sauntered one fine
evening towards the sea-shore. There was a little path which wound round
the side of a bold crag, partly by steps, partly by a kind of sloping
way, defended at the sides by a rude wooden railing, which led down upon
the beach exactly at the spot where a well of clear spring-water sprang
up, and tracked its tiny stream into the blue ocean. This little spring,
which was always covered by the sea at high-water, was restored, on the
tide ebbing, to its former purity, and bubbled away as before; and from
this cause it had obtained from the simple peasantry the reputation of
being miraculous, and was believed to possess innumerable properties of
healing and consoling.
I had often heard of it but never visited it before; and thither we now
bent our steps, more intent upon catching the glorious sunset that was
glowing on the Atlantic than of testing the virtues of St. Senan’s Well,
for so was it called. The evening, an autumnal one, was calm and still;
not a leaf stirred; the very birds were hushed; and there was all that
solemn silence that sometimes threatens the outbreak of a storm. As we
descended the crag, however, the deep booming of the sea broke upon us,
and between the foliage of the oak-trees we could mark the heavy rolling
of the mighty tide, as wave after wave swelled on, and then was dashed
in foam and spray upon the shore. There was something peculiarly grand
and almost supernatural in the heavy swell of the great sea, rearing
its white crest afar and thundering along the weather-beaten rocks, when
everything else was calm and unmoved around; the deep and solemn roar,
echoing from many a rocky cavern, rose amid the crashing spray that sent
up a thin veil of mist, through which the setting sun was reflected in
many a bright rainbow. It was indeed a glorious sight, and we stopped
for several minutes gazing on it; when suddenly Louisa, letting go my
arm, exclaimed, as she pointed downwards--
‘See, see the swell beneath that large black rock yonder! The tide is
making fast; we must get quickly down if you wish to test St. Senan’s
power.’
I had no time left me to ask what peculiar virtues the saint dispensed
through the mediation of his well, when she broke from my side and
hurried down the steep descent. In a moment we had reached the shore,
upon which already the tide was fast encroaching, and had marked with
its dark stain the yellow sand within a few feet of the well. As we drew
nearer, I perceived the figure of an old woman hent with age, who seemed
busily occupied sprinkling the water of the spring over something that,
as I came closer, seemed like a sailor’s jacket. She was repeating
some words rapidly to herself; but on hearing our approach, she quickly
collected her bundle together under her remnant of a cloak, and sat
waiting our approach in silence.
‘It’s Molly Ban!’ said Louisa suddenly, and growing pale as she spoke.
‘Give her something, if you have any money, I beseech you.’
There was no opportunity for inquiring further about her now, for the
old woman slowly rose from the stone by the aid of a stick, and stood
confronting us. Her figure was singularly short, scarce four feet in
height; but her head was enormously large, and her features, which were
almost terrific in ugliness, were swarthy as a gypsy’s. A man’s hat was
fastened upon her head by a red kerchief which was knotted beneath her
chin; a short cloak of faded scarlet, like what the peasantry of the
west usually wear, covered her shoulders, beneath which a patched and
many-coloured petticoat appeared, that reached to the middle of her
legs, which, as well as her feet, were completely naked, giving the old
woman a look of wildness and poverty which I cannot attempt to convey.
The most singular part of her costume, however, was a rude collar she
wore round her neck of sea-shells, among which, here and there, I could
detect some bits of painted and gilded carving, like fragments of a
wreck. This strange apparition now stood opposite me, her dark eyes
fixed steadily on my companion, to whom, unlike the people of the
country, she never made the slightest reverence, or showed any semblance
of respect.
‘And was it to spy after me, Miss Loo, ye brought down yer sweetheart
to the well this evening?’ said the hag, in a harsh, grating voice, that
seemed the very last effort of some suppressed passion.
Louisa’s arm grasped mine, and I could feel it tremble with agitation as
she whispered in my ear--
‘Give her money quickly; I know her.’
‘And is your father going to send me back to jail because the cattle’s
got the rot amongst them? Ha, ha, ha!’ said she, breaking into a wild,
discordant laugh. ‘There will be more mourning than for that at Castle
Bellew before long.’
Louisa leaned against me, faint and almost falling, while drawing out my
purse hastily I held forth my hand full of silver. The old hag clutched
at it eagerly, and as her dark eyes flashed fire, she thrust the money
into a pocket at her side, and again broke out into a horrid laugh.
‘So, you’re beginnin’ to know me, are ye? Ye won’t mock Molly Ban now,
eh? No, ‘faith, nor Mary Lafferty either, that turned me from the door
and shut it agin me. Where ‘ll her pride be to-morrow night, when they
bring in her husband a corpse to her? Look at that!’
With these words she threw her cloak on one side, and showed the blue
jacket of a fisherman which I had seen her sprinkling with the water as
we came up.
‘The blue water will be his winding-sheet this night, calm as it is
now.’
‘Oh, Molly dear, don’t speak this way!’
‘Molly dear!’ echoed the beldame, in an accent of biting derision. ‘Who
ever heerd one of your name call me that? Or are ye come for a charm
for that young man beside you? See, now! the sun’s just gone; in a minit
more the sea ‘ll be in, and it’ll be too late. Here, come near me! kneel
down there! kneel down, I say! or is it only my curse ye mind?’
‘She’s mad, poor thing,’ said I, in my companion’s ear. ‘Let her have
her way; do as she bids you.’
Sinking with terror, pale as death, and trembling all over, Louisa bent
one knee upon the little rock beside the well, while the old hag took
her fair hand within her own skinny fingers and plunged it rudely in the
well.
‘There, drink,’ said the old woman, offering me the fair palm, through
which the clear water was running rapidly, while she chanted rather than
spoke the rude rhyme that follows--
‘By the setting sun,
The flowing sea,
The waters that run,
I swear to thee
That my faith shall be true, at this moment now,
In weal or in woe, wherever or how:
So help me, Saint Senan, to keep my vow!’
The last words had scarcely been uttered when Louisa, who apparently had
been too much overcome by terror to hear one word the hag had muttered,
sprang up from the stone, her face and neck covered with a deep blush,
her lip trembling with agitation, while her eyes were fixedly directed
towards the old woman with an expression of haughty anger.
‘Ay, ye may look as proud as ye like. It’s little I mind ye, in love
or in hate. Ye are well humbled enough now. And as for you,’ said she,
turning towards me a look of scornful pity--‘you, I wish ye joy of your
fair sweetheart; let her only keep her troth like her own mother, and
ye’ll have a happy heart to sit at your fireside with.’
[Illustration: 442]
The blood fled from Louisa’s cheek as these words were uttered; a deadly
paleness spread over her features; her lips were bloodless and parted;
and her hands firmly clenched together and pressed against her side,
bespoke the agony of the moment. It lasted not longer; for she fell back
fainting and insensible into my arms. I bathed her face and temples
from the well; I called upon her, rubbed her hands within my own, and
endeavoured by every means to arouse her; but in vain. I turned to beg
for aid from the woman, but she was gone. I again endeavoured to awake
Louisa from her stupor, but she lay cold, rigid, and motionless; her
features had stiffened like a corpse, and showed no touch of life.
I shouted aloud for aid; but, alas! we were far from all human
habitations, and the wild cries of the curlew were the only sounds
that met my ear, or the deep rushing of the sea, as it broke nearer and
nearer to where I stood. A sudden pang of horror shot across me as I
looked around and below, and saw no chance of aid from any quarter.
Already the sun was below the horizon, and the grey twilight gave but
gloomy indications all around. The sea, too, was coming fast; the foam
had reached us, and even now the salt tide had mingled its water with
the little spring. No more time was to be lost. A projecting point of
rock intervened between us and the little path by which we had descended
to the beach; over this the spray was now splashing, and its base was
only to be seen at intervals between the advancing or retiring wave.
A low, wailing sound, like distant wind, was creeping over the water,
which from time to time was curled along the round-backed wave with all
the threatening aspect of a coming storm; the sea-birds wheeled round in
circles, waking the echoes with their wild notes, and the heavy swell
of the breaking sea roared through many a rocky cavern with a sad and
mournful melody. I threw one last look above, where the tall beetling
cliff was lost in the gloom of coming night, another on the broad bleak
ocean, and then, catching up my companion in my arms, set forward.
For the first few moments I felt not my burden. My beating heart
throbbed proudly, and as I pressed her to my bosom, how I nerved myself
for any coming danger by the thought that all the world to me lay in
my arms! Every step, however, brought me farther out; the sea, which
at first washed only to my ankles, now reached my knees; my step became
unsteady, and when for an instant I turned one look on her who lay still
and insensible within my grasp, I felt my head reel and my sight wander
as I again looked out on the dark water that rolled around us. We were
now near the rocky point which, once passed, placed us in safely; and to
reach this I summoned up every effort. Around this the waves had worn
a deeper track, and against its side they heat and lashed themselves to
foam, which boiled in broad sheets around. A loud cheer from some one
on the cliff above us turned my glance upwards, and I could see lights
moving backwards and forwards through the darkness; before I could reply
to the voice, however, a large wave came mantling near, gathering force
as it approached, and swelling its gigantic mass so as to shut out
all besides. I fixed myself firmly to resist the shock, and slightly
bending, opposed my shoulder to the mighty roll of water that now
towered like a wall above us. On it came, till its dark crest frowned
above our heads; for a second or two it seemed to pause, as the white
curl tipped its breaking edge, and then, with a roll like thunder, broke
over us. For an instant I held my footing; at length, however, my step
tottered; I felt myself lifted up, and then hurled headlong beneath
the swollen volume of water that closed above my head. Stunned, but
not senseless, I grasped my burden closer to my heart, and struggled to
regain my footing. The wave passed inwards as I rose to my feet, and
a sea of boiling foam hissed around me. Beyond, all was dim and
indistinct; a brooding darkness stretched towards the sea, and landward
the tall cliffs were wrapped in deep shadow, except when the light that
I had seen flitted from place to place, like the dancing wildfire. A
loud cheer from on high made me suppose that we were perceived; but my
attention was turned away by a low, moaning sound that came floating
over the water; and as I looked, I could see that the black surface
swelled upwards, as if by some mighty force beneath, and rose towering
into the air. The wave that now approached us was much greater than the
former one, and came thundering on as if impatient for its prey. My fear
was of being carried out to sea, and I looked hastily around for some
rocky point to hold on by; but in vain. The very sands beneath me seemed
moving and shifting; the voice of thunder was in my ears; my senses
reeled, and the thought of death by drowning, with all its agony, came
over me.
‘Oh, my father! my poor father!’ said a low, plaintive voice beside
my cheek; and the next instant the blood rushed warm to my heart. My
courage rallied; my arm grew nerved and strong; my footsteps seemed to
grasp the very ground, and with a bold and daring spirit I waited for
the coming shock. On it came, a mighty flood, sweeping high above us
as we struggled in the midst. The blue water moved on, unbroken; for a
moment or two I felt we were borne along with a whirlwind speed; then
suddenly we touched the strand--but only for a second, for the returning
wave came thundering back, and carried us along with it. My senses now
began to wander; the dark and gloomy sea stretched around us; the stars
seemed to flit to and fro; the roar of water and the sounds of human
voices were mingled in my ears; my strength, too, was failing me, and
I buffeted the waves with scarcely consciousness. Just at that moment,
when, all dread of danger past, the gloomy indifference to life was
fast succeeding, I saw a bright gleam of light flying rapidly across the
water; the shouts of voices reached me also, but the words I heard not.
Now falling beneath, now rising above the foamy surface, I struggled on,
with only strength to press home closer to my bosom the form of her my
heart was filled by, when of a sudden I felt my arm rudely grasped on
either side. A rope, too, was thrown around my waist, and I was hurried
inwards towards the shore amid cries of ‘All safe! all safe! not too
fast, there!’ A dreary indistinctness of what followed even still haunts
my mind. A huge wood-fire upon the beach, the figures of the fishermen,
the country-people passing hither and thither, the tumult of voices, and
a rude chair in which lay a pale, half-fainting form. The rest I know
not.
It was dark--so dark I could not see the persons that moved beside me.
As we passed along the grassy turf in silence, I held a soft hand in
mine, and a fair cheek rested on my shoulder, while masses of long
and dripping hair fell on my neck and bosom. Carried by two stout
peasant-fishermen in a chair, Louisa Bellew, faint but conscious of the
danger past, was borne homeward. I walked beside her, my heart too full
for words. A loud, wild cheer burst suddenly forth, and a bright gleam
of light aroused me from my trance of happiness. The steps were crowded
with people, the large hall so full we scarce could force our way. The
door of the parlour was now thrown open, and there sat the pale, gaunt
figure of Sir Simon Bellew--his eyes staring wildly, and his lips
parted; his hands resting on each arm of his chair--motionless.
Bursting from those that carried her, Louisa sprang towards her father
with a cry; but ere she reached his arms he had fallen from his seat to
his knees, and with his hands clasped above his head, and upturned eyes,
poured forth a prayer to God. Sinking to his side, she twined her hands
with his; and as if moved by the magic of the scene, the crowd fell to
their knees, and joined in the thanksgiving. It was a moment of deep and
touching feeling to hear the slow, scarce articulate words of that old
man, who turned from the sight of her his heart treasured to thank the
great Father of Mercy, who had not left him childless in his age--to
mark the low sobs of those around, as they strove to stifle them, while
tears coursed down the hard and weather-beaten cheeks of humble
poverty, as they muttered to themselves their heartfelt thanks for her
preservation. There was a pause; the old man turned his eyes upon his
child, and, like a dammed-up torrent breaking forth, the warm tears
gushed out, and with a cry of ‘My own--my only one!’ he fell upon her
neck and wept.
I could hear no more. Springing to my feet, I dashed through the hall,
and resisting every effort to detain me, rushed down the steps and
gained the lawn. Once there alone, I sank down upon the sward, and
poured forth my heart in tears of happiness.
CHAPTER XXXIX. AN UNLOOKED-FOR MEETING
I made many ineffectual efforts to awake on the morning after my
adventure. Fatigue and exhaustion, which seem always heaviest when
incurred by danger, had completely worn me out, and scarcely had I
succeeded in opening my eyes and muttering some broken words, ere again
I dropped off to sleep, soundly, and without a dream. It was late in
the afternoon when at length I sat up in my bed and looked about me. A
gentle hand suddenly fell upon my shoulder, and a low voice, which I at
once recognised as Father Tom’s, whispered--
‘There now, my dear fellow, lie down again. You must not stir for a
couple of hours yet.’
I looked at him fixedly for a moment, and, as I clasped his hand in
mine, asked--
‘How is she, father?’
Scarcely were these words spoken when I felt a burning blush upon my
cheek. It was the confidence of long months that found vent in one
second--the pent-up secret of my heart that burst from me unconsciously,
and I hid my face upon the pillow, and felt as though I had betrayed
her.
‘Well--quite well,’ said the old man, as he pressed my hand forcibly in
his own. ‘But let us not speak now. You must take more rest, and then
have your arm looked to. I believe you have forgotten all about it.’
‘My arm!’ repeated I, in some surprise; while, turning down the clothes,
I perceived that my right arm was sorely bruised, and swollen to
an immense size. ‘The rocks have done this,’ muttered I. ‘And she,
father--what of her, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Be calm, or I must leave you,’ said the priest ‘I said before that she
was well. Poor boy!’
There was something so touching in the tone of the last words that
without my knowing why, I felt a kind of creeping fear pass across me,
and a dread of some unknown evil steal over me.
‘Father,’ said I, springing up, and grasping him with both my hands,
while the pain of my wounded arm shot through my very heart, ‘you are
an honest man, and you are a man of God: you would not tell me a lie. Is
she well?’ The big drop fell from my brow as I spoke.
He clasped his hands fervently together as he replied, in a voice
tremulous with agitation, ‘I have not told you a lie!’ He turned away
as he spoke, and I lay down in my bed with a mind relieved, but not at
rest.
Alas, how hard it is to be happy! The casualties of this world come on
like waves, one succeeding the other. We may escape the heavy roll of
the mighty ocean, and be wrecked in the still, smooth waters of the
landlocked bay. We dread the storm and the hurricane, and we forget how
many have perished within sight of shore. But yet a secret fear is
ever present with us when danger hovers near; and this sense of some
impending evil it was which now darkened me, and whispered me to be
prepared.
I lay for some time sunk in my reflections, and when I looked up, the
priest was gone. A letter had fallen on the floor, as if by accident»
and I rose to place it on my table, when, to my surprise, I found it
addressed to myself. It was marked ‘On His Majesty’s service,’ and ran
thus:--
‘Dublin Castle.
‘Sir,--I have received his Excellency’s
orders to inform you that unless you, on receipt of the
present letter, at once return to your duty as a member of
the staff, your name will be erased from the list, and the
vacancy immediately filled up.--I have the honour to be,
etc.,
‘Henry Horton.’
What could have caused the great alteration in his Excellency’s feelings
that this order evinced I could not conceive, and I felt hurt and
indignant at the tone of a letter which came on me so completely by
surprise. I knew, however, how much my father looked to my strict
obedience to every call of duty, and resolved that, come what would, I
should at once resume my position on the duke’s staff.
These were but momentary reflections. My thoughts recurred at once to
where my heart was dwelling---with her whose very image lived within
me. Try how I would, I could think of no pleasure in which she took not
part, imagine no scheme of life in which she was not concerned. Ambition
had lost its charm; the path of glory I had longed to tread, I felt now
as nothing beside that heather walk which led me towards her; and if
I were to have chosen between the most brilliant career high station,
influence, and fortune could bestow, and the lowly condition of a
dweller in these wild mountain solitudes, I felt that not a moment of
hesitation or doubt would mark my decision. There was a kind of
heroism in the relinquishing all the blandishments of fortune, all the
seductions of the brilliant world, for one whose peaceful and humble
life strayed not beyond the limits of these rugged mountains; and this
had its charm. There were times when I loved to ask myself whether
Louisa Bellew would not, even amid all the splendour and display of
London life, be as much admired and courted as the most acknowledged
of beauty’s daughters: now I turned rather to the thought of how far
happier and better it was to know that a nature so unhackneyed, a heart
so rich in its own emotions, was never to be exposed to the callous
collision of society and all the hardened hypocrisy of the world. My
own lot, too, how many more chances of happiness did it not present as
I looked at the few weeks of the past, and thought of whole years thus
gliding away, loving and beloved!
A kind of stir, and the sound of voices beneath my window, broke my
musings, and I rose and looked out. It proceeded from the young girl
and the country lad who formed the priest’s household. They were talking
together before the door, and pointing in the direction of the highroad,
where a cloud of dust had marked the passage of some carriage--an event
rare enough to attract attention in these wild districts.
‘And did his reverence say that the Captain was to be kept in bed till
he came back?’
‘Ah, then, sure, he knew well enough,’ said Mary, ‘that the young man
would be up and off to the castle the moment he was able to walk--ay,
and maybe before it too. Troth, Patsey, it’s what I’m thinking--there’s
nobody knows how to coort like a raal gentleman.’
‘Och, botheration!’ said Patsey, with an offended toss of his head, and
a look of half malice.
‘Faix, you may look how you like, but it’s truth I’m telling ye. They
know how to do it. It isn’t winking at a body, nor putting their great
rough arms round their neck; but it’s a quiet, mannerly, dacent way they
have, and soothering voice, and a look under their eyes, as much as to
say, “Maybe ye wouldn’t, now?”’
‘Troth, Mary,’ said Patsey sharply, ‘it strikes me that you know more of
their ways than is just convenient--eh, do you understand me now?’
‘Well, and if I do,’ replied Mary, ‘there’s no one can be evenin’ it to
you, for I’m sure it wasn’t you taught me!’
‘Ye want to provoke me,’ said the young man, rising, and evidently
more annoyed than he felt disposed to confess; ‘but, faix, I’ll keep my
temper. It’s not after spaking to his reverence, and buying a cow and a
dresser, that I ‘m going to break it off.’
‘Heigh-ho!’ said Mary, as she adjusted a curl that was most coquettishly
half falling across her eyes; ‘sure there’s many a slip betune the cup
and the lip, as the poor dear young gentleman will find out when he
wakes.’
A cold fear ran through me as I heard these words, and the presentiment
of some mishap, that for a few moments I had been forgetting, now came
back in double force. I set about dressing myself in all haste, and,
notwithstanding that my wounded arm interfered with me at each instant,
succeeded at last in my undertaking. I looked at my watch; it was
already six o’clock in the afternoon, and the large mountains were
throwing their great shadows over the yellow strand. Collecting from
what I had heard from the priest’s servants that it was their intention
to detain me in the house, I locked my door on leaving the room, and
stole noiselessly down the stairs, crossed the little garden, and
passing through the beech hedge, soon found myself upon the mountain
path. My pace quickened as I breasted the hillside, my eyes firmly fixed
upon the tall towers of the old castle, as they stood proudly topping
the dense foliage of the oak-trees. Like some mariner who gazes on the
long-wished-f or beacon that tells of home and friends, so I bent my
steadfast looks to that one object, and conjured up many a picture to
myself of the scene that might be at that moment enacting there. Now I
imagined the old man seated, silent and motionless, beside the bed where
his daughter, overcome with weakness and exhaustion, still slept, her
pale face scarce coloured by a pinkish flush that marked the last trace
of feverish excitement; now I thought of her as if still seated in
her own drawing-room, at the little window that faced seaward, looking
perhaps upon the very spot that marked our last night’s adventure, and,
mayhap, blushing at the memory.
As I came near the park I turned from the regular approach to a small
path, which, opening by a wicket, led to a little flower-garden beside
the drawing-room. I had not walked many paces when the sound of some one
sobbing caught my ear. I stopped to listen, and could distinctly hear
the low broken voice of grief quite near me. My mind was in that excited
state when every breeze that rustled, every leaf that stirred, thrilled
through my heart; the same dread of something, I knew not what, that
agitated me as I awoke came fresh upon me, and a cold tremor crept over
me. The next moment I sprang forward, and as I turned the angle of the
walk beheld--with what relief of heart!--that the cries proceeded from
a little child, who, seated in the grass, was weeping bitterly. It was
a boy of scarce five years old that Louisa used to employ about the
garden--rather to amuse the little fellow, to whom she had taken a
liking, than for the sake of services which at the best were scarcely
harmless.
‘Well, Billy,’ said I, ‘what has happened to you, my boy? Have you
fallen and hurt yourself?’
‘Na,’ was the only reply; and sinking his head between his knees, he
sobbed more bitterly than ever.
‘Has Miss Loo been angry with you, then?’
‘Na, na,’ was the only answer, as he poured forth a flood of tears.
‘Come, come, my little man, what is it? Tell me, and perhaps we can set
it all to rights.’
‘Gone! gone away for ever!’ cried the child, as a burst of pent-up agony
broke from him; and he cried as though his very heart would break.
Again the terrible foreboding crossed my mind, and without waiting to
ask another question I rushed forward, cleared the little fence of the
flower-garden at a spring and stood within a few yards of the window.
It lay open as usual; the large china vase of moss-roses that she
had plucked the evening before stood on the little table beside it.
I stopped for an instant to breathe; the beating of my heart was so
painful that I pressed my hand upon my side. At that instant I had given
my life to have heard Louisa’s voice; but for one single word I had
bartered my heart’s blood. But all was as hushed and still as midnight.
I thought I did hear something like a sigh; yes, and now I could
distinctly hear the rustling sound of some one as if turning in a chair.
Sir Simon Bellew, for some cause, or other, I knew never came into that
room. I listened again: yes, and now too I could see the shadow of
a figure on the floor. I sprang forward to the window and cried out,
‘Louisa!’ The next instant I was in the room, and my eyes fell upon the
figure of--Ulick Burke! Seated in a deep arm-chair, his leg resting on a
low stool, he was reclining at half-length, his face pale as death, and
his very lips blanched; but there rested on the mouth the same curl of
insolent mockery that marked it when first we met.
‘Disappointed, I fear, sir,’ said he, in a tone which, however weakened
by sickness, had lost nothing of its sneering bitterness.
‘I confess, sir,’ said I confusedly, ‘that this is a pleasure I had not
anticipated.’
‘Nor I either, sir,’ replied he, with a dark frown. ‘Had I been able to
ring the bell before, the letter that lies there should have been sent
to you, and might have spared both of us this “pleasure,” as you are
good enough to call it.’
‘A letter for me?’ said I eagerly; then half ashamed at my own emotion,
and not indifferent to the sickly and apparently dying form before me, I
hesitated, and added, ‘I trust that you are recovering from the effects
of your wound.’
[Illustration: 3-008]
‘Damn the wound, sir; don’t speak to me about it! You never came
here for that, I suppose? Take your letter, sir!’ A purple flush here
coloured his features, as though some pang of agonising pain had shot
through him, and his livid lip quivered with passion. ‘Take your letter,
sir!’ and he threw it towards me as he spoke.
I stood amazed and thunderstruck at this sudden outbreak of anger, and
for a second or two could not recover myself to speak. ‘You mistake me,’
said I.
‘Mistake you? No, confound me! I don’t mistake you; I know you well and
thoroughly! But you mistake me, ay, and damnably too, if you suppose
that because I ‘m crippled here this insolence shall pass unpunished!
Who but a coward, sir, would come thus to taunt a man like me? Yes, sir,
a coward! I spoke it--I said it! Would you like to hear it over again?
Or if you don’t like it, the remedy is near you--nearer than you think.
There are two pistols in that case, both loaded with ball; take your
choice, and your own distance; and here, where we are, let us finish
this quarrel! For, mark me!’ and here his brow darkened, till the veins,
swelled and knotted in his forehead, looked like indigo--‘mark me, the
account shall be closed one day or other!’
I saw at once that he had lashed his fury up to an ungovernable pitch,
and that to speak to him was only to increase his passion; so I stooped
down without saying a word, and took up the letter that lay at my feet.
‘I am waiting your reply, sir,’ said he, with a low voice, subdued by an
inward effort into a seeming quietness of tone.
‘You cannot imagine,’ said I mildly, ‘that I could accept of such a
challenge as this, nor fight with a man who cannot leave his chair?’
‘And who has made me so, sir? Who has made me a paralytic thing for
life? But if that be all, give me your arm, and help me through that
window; place me against that yew-tree, yonder. I can stand well enough.
You won’t?--you refuse me this? Oh, coward! coward! You grow pale and
red again! Let your white lip mutter, and your nails eat into your hands
with passion! Your heart is craven, and you know it!’
Shall I dare to own it? For an instant or two my resolution tottered,
and involuntarily my eyes turned to the pistol-case upon the table
beside me. He caught the look, and in a tone of triumphant exultation
cried out--
‘Bravo, bravo! What! you hesitate again? Oh, that this should not be
before the world--in some open and public place--that men should not
look on and see us here!’
‘I leave you, sir,’ said I sternly--‘thankful, for _your_ sake at least,
that this is not before the world.’
‘Stop, sir! stop!’ cried he, hoarse with rage. ‘Ring that bell!’ I
hesitated, and he called out again, ‘Ring that bell, sir!’
I approached the chimney, and did as he desired. The butler immediately
made his appearance.
‘Nicholas,’ cried the sick man, ‘bring in the servants--bring them in
here; you hear me well. I want to show them something they have never
seen. Go!’
The man disappeared at once, and as I met the scowling look of hate that
fixed its glare upon me, once more I felt myself to waver. The struggle
was but momentary. I sprang to the window, and leaped into the garden.
A loud curse broke from Burke as I did so; a cry of disappointed wrath,
like the yell of a famished wolf, followed. The next moment I was beyond
the reach of his insolence and his invective.
The passionate excitement of the moment over, my first determination was
to gain the approach, and return to the house by the hall door; my next,
to break the seal of the letter which I held in my hand, and see if its
contents might not throw some light upon the events which somehow I
felt were thickening around me, but of whose nature and import I knew
nothing.
The address was written in a stiff, old-fashioned hand; but the large
seal bore the arms of the Bellew family, and left no doubt upon my
mind that it had come from Sir Simon. I opened it with a trembling and
throbbing heart, and read as follows:--
‘My dear Sir,--The event of last night has called back upon a failing
and broken memory the darkest hour of a long and blighted life, and made
the old man, whose steadfast gaze looked onward to the tomb, turn once
backward to behold the deepest affliction of his days--misfortune,
crime, remorse. I cannot even now, while already the very shadow of
death is on me, recount the sad story I allude to; enough for the object
I have in view if I say, that, where I once owed the life of one I held
dearest in the world, the hand that saved lived to steal, and the voice
that blessed me was perjured and forsworn. Since that hour I have never
received a service of a fellow-mortal, until the hour when you rescued
my child. And oh! loving her as I do, wrapped up as my soul is in her
image, I could have borne better to see her cold and dripping corpse
laid down beside me than to behold her, as I have done, in your arms.
You must never meet more. The dreadful anticipation of long-suffering
years is creeping stronger and stronger upon me; and I feel in my inmost
heart that I am reserved for another and a last bereavement ere I die.
‘We shall have left before this letter reaches you. You may perhaps
hear the place of our refuge, for such it is; but I trust that to your
feelings as a gentleman and a man of honour I can appeal, in the certain
confidence that you will not abuse my faith--you will not follow us.
‘I know not what I have written, nor dare I read it again. Already my
tears have dimmed my eyes, and are falling on the paper; so let me bid
you farewell--an eternal fare well. My nephew has arrived here. I have
not seen him, nor shall I; but he will forward this letter to you after
our departure.--Yours, S. Bellew.’
The first stunning feeling past, I looked round me to see if it were not
some horrid dream, and the whole events but the frightful deception of a
sleeping fancy. But bit by bit the entire truth broke upon me; the
full tide of sorrow rushed in upon my heart. The letter I could not
comprehend further than that some deep affliction had been recalled
by my late adventure. But then, the words of the hag--the brief,
half-uttered intimations of the priest--came to my memory. ‘Her mother,’
said I--‘what of her mother?’ I remembered Louisa had never mentioned
or even alluded to her; and now a thousand suspicions crossed my mind,
which all gave way before my own sense of bereavement and the desolation
and desertion I felt, in my own heart. I threw myself upon the ground
where she walked so often beside me, and burst into tears. But a few
brief hours, and how surrounded by visions of happiness and lovet Now,
bereft of everything, what charm had life for me! How valueless, how
worthless did all seem! The evening sun I loved to gaze on, the bright
flowers, the waving grass, the low murmur of the breaking surf that
stole like music over the happy sense, were now but gloomy things or
discordant sounds. The very high and holy thoughts that used to stir
within me were changed to fierce and wrathful passions or the low
drooping of despair. It was night, still and starry night, when I arose
and wended my way towards the priest’s cottage.
CHAPTER XL. THE PRIEST’S KITCHEN
The candles were burning brightly, and the cheerful bog-fire was blazing
on the hearth, as I drew near the window of the priest’s cottage; but
yet there was no one in the room. The little tea-kettle was hissing on
the hob, and the room had all that careful look of watchful attention
bestowed upon it that showed, the zeal of his little household.
Uncertain how I should meet him, how far explain the affliction that
had fallen on me, I walked for some time up and down before the door;
at length I wandered to the back of the house, and passing the little
stable, I remarked that the pony was absent. The priest had not returned
perhaps since morning; perhaps he had gone some distance off--in all
likelihood accompanied the Bellews; again the few words he had spoken
that morning recurred to me, and I pondered in silence over their
meaning. As I thus mused, a strong flood of mellow light attracted me as
it fell in a broad stream across the little paved court, and I now saw
that it came from the kitchen. I drew near the window in silence, and
looked in. Before the large turf-fire were seated three persons; two
of them, who sat in the shining light, I at once recognised as the
servants; but the third was concealed in the shadow of the chimney, and
I could only trace the outline of his figure against the blaze. I was
not long, however, in doubt as to his identity.
‘Seemingly, then, you’re a great traveller,’ said Patsey, the priest’s
man, addressing the unknown.
A long whiff of smoke, patiently emitted, and a polite wave of the hand
in assent was the reply.
‘And how far did you come to-day, av I might be so bould?’ said Mary.
‘From the cross of Kiltermon, beyond Gurtmore, my darlin’; and sure
it is a real pleasure and a delight to come so far to see as pretty a
crayture as yourself.’ Here Patsey looked a little put out, and Mary
gave a half smile of encouragement. ‘For,’ continued the other, breaking
into a song--
‘Though I love a fox in a cover to find,
When the clouds is low, with a sou’west wind,
Faix, a pretty girl is more to my mind
Than the tally-high-ho of a morning.’
I need scarcely say that the finale of this rude verse was given in a
way that only Tipperary Joe could accomplish, as he continued--
‘And just show me one with an instep high,
A saucy look, and a roguish eye,
Who ‘d smile ten times for once she ‘d sigh,
And I’m her slave till morning.’
‘And that’s yoursel’, devil a less--ye ho, ye ho, tally-ho! I hope the
family isn’t in bed?’
‘Troth, seemingly,’ said Patsey, in a tone of evident pique, ‘it would
distress you little av they were; you seem mighty well accustomed to
making yourself at home.’
‘And why wouldn’t the young man?’ said Mary, apparently well pleased
to encourage a little jealousy on the part of her lover, ‘and no harm
neither. And ye do be always with the hounds, sir?’
‘Yes, miss, that’s what I be doing. But I wonder what’s keeping the
Captain; I’ve a letter here for him that I know ought to have no delay.
I run all the way for fourteen miles over Mey’nacurraghew mountain to be
here quick with him.’
I opened the door as I heard this, and entered the kitchen.
‘Hurroo! by the mortial,’ cried Joe, with one of his wild shouts, ‘it ‘s
himself! Arrah, darlin’, how is every bit in your skin?’
‘Well, Joe, my poor fellow, I am delighted to see you safe and sound
once more. Many a day have I reproached myself for the way you suffered
for my sake, and for the manner I left you.’
‘There’s only one thing you have any rayson to grieve over,’ said the
poor fellow, as the tears started to his eyes, and rolled in heavy drops
down his cheeks, ‘and here it is.’
As he spoke, he drew from his bosom a little green-silk purse, half
filled with gold.
‘Ah, Captain, jewel, why wouldn’t you let a poor fellow taste happiness
his own way? Is it because I had no shoes on me that I hadn’t any pride
in my heart? And is it because I wasn’t rich that you wouldn’t let me
be a friend to you, just to myself alone? Oh, little as we know of grand
people and their ways, troth, they don’t see our hearts half as plain.
See, now I ‘d rather you ‘d have come up to the bed that morning and
left me your curse--ay, devil a less--than that purse of money; and it
wouldn’t do me as much harm.’
He dropped his head as he spoke, and his arms fell listlessly to his
side, while he stood mute and sorrow-struck before me.
‘Come, Joe,’ said I, holding out my hand to him--‘come, Joe, forgive me.
If I didn’t know better, remember we were only new acquaintance at that
time: from this hour we are more.’
The words seemed to act like a spell upon him; he stood proudly up, and
his eyes flashed with their wildest glare, while, seizing my hand, he
pressed it to his lips, and called out--
‘While there’s a drop in my heart, darlin’----’
‘You have a letter for me,’ said I, glad to turn the channel of both our
thoughts. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘At the Curragh, sir, no less. I was standing beside the staff, among
all the grand generals and the quality, near the Lord Liftinint, and
I heard one of the officers say, “If I knew where to write to him, I’d
certainly do so; but he has never written to any of us since his duel.”
“Ah,” said another, “Binton’s an odd fellow that way.” The minit I heard
the name, I up and said to him, “Write the letter, and I’ll bring it,
and bring you an answer besides, av ye want it.”
‘“And who the devil are you?” said he.
‘“Troth,” said I, “there’s more on this race knows me nor yourself, fine
as ye are.” And they all began laughing at this, for the officer grew
mighty red in the face, and was angry; and what he was going to say it’s
hard to tell, for just then Lord Clonmel called out--
‘“Sure, it’s Tipperary Joe himself; begad, every one knows him. Here,
Joe, I owe you half-a-crown since last meeting at the lough.”
‘“Faix, you do,” says I, “and ten shillings to the back of it for Lanty
Cassan’s mare that I hired to bring you home when you staked the horse;
you never paid it since.” And then there was another laugh; but the end
of all was, he writ a bit of a note where he was on horseback, with a
pencil, and here it is.’
So saying, he produced a small crumpled piece of paper, in which I could
with some difficulty trace the following lines:--
‘Dear Jack,--If the fool who bears this ever arrives with it, come back
at once. Your friends in England have been worrying the duke to command
your return to duty; and there are stories afloat about your western
doings that your presence here can alone contradict.--Yours, J. Horton.’
It needed not a second for me to make up my mind as to my future course,
and I said--
‘How can I reach Limerick the shortest way?’ ‘I know a short cut,’ said
Joe, ‘and if we could get a pony I’d bring you over the mountain before
to-morrow evening.’
‘And you,’ said I--‘how are you to go?’ ‘On my feet, to be sure; how
else would I go?’ Despatching Joe, in company with Patsey, in search of
a pony to carry me over the mountain, I walked into the little parlour
which I was now about to take my leave of for ever.
It was only then when I threw myself upon a seat, alone and in solitude,
that I felt the full force of all my sorrow--the blight that had fallen
on my dearest hopes, and the blank, bleak prospect of life before me.
Sir Simon Bellew’s letter I read over once more; but now the mystery it
contained had lost all interest for me, and I had only thoughts for my
own affliction. Suddenly, a deep burning spot glowed on my cheek as I
remembered my interview with Ulick Burke, and I sprang to my legs, and
for a second or two felt undecided whether I would not give him the
opportunity he so longed for. It was but a second, and my better reason
came back, and I blushed even deeper with shame than I had done with
passion.
Calming myself with a mighty effort, I endeavoured to pen a few lines to
my worthy and kind friend, Father Loftus. I dared not tell him the real
cause of my departure, though indeed I guessed from his absence that he
had accompanied the Bellews, and but simply spoke of my return to duty
as imperative, and my regret that after such proofs of his friendship I
could not shake his hand at parting. The continued flurry of my feelings
doubtless made this a very confused and inexplicit document; but I could
do no better. In fact, the conviction I had long been labouring under,
but never could thoroughly appreciate, broke on me at the moment. It
was this: the sudden vicissitudes of everyday life in Ireland are sadly
unsuited to our English natures and habits of thought and action. These
changes from grave to gay, these outbreaks of high-souled enthusiasm
followed by dark, reflective traits of brooding thought, these noble
impulses of good, these events of more than tragic horror, demand a
changeful, even a forgetful temperament to bear them; and while the
Irishman rises or falls with every emergency of his fate, with us
impressions are eating deeper and deeper into our hearts, and we become
sad and thoughtful, and prematurely old. Thus at least did I feel, and
it seemed to me as though very many years had passed over me since I
left my father’s house.
The tramp of feet and the sounds of speaking and laughter outside
interrupted my musings, and I heard my friend Joe carolling at the top
of his voice--
‘Sir Pat bestrode a high-bred steed,
And the huntsman one that was broken-kneed,
And Father Pitz had a wiry weed
With his tally-high-ho in the morning.’
‘‘Faith, and you’re a great beast entirely; and one might dance a jig on
your back, and leave room for the piper besides.’
I opened the window, and in the bright moonlight beheld the party
leading up a short, rugged-looking pony, whose breadth of beam and
square proportions fully justified all Joe’s encomiums.
‘Have you bought this pony for me, Joe?’ cried I. ‘No, sir, only
borrowed him. He’ll take you up to Wheley’s mills, where we’ll get
Andy’s mare to-morrow morning.’
‘Borrowed him?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Where ‘s his owner?’
‘He ‘s in bed, where he ought to be. I tould him through the door who it
was for, and that he needn’t get up, as I ‘d find the ways of the place
myself; and ye see so I did.’
‘Told him who it was for! Why, he never heard of me in his life.’
‘Devil may care; sure you’re the priest’s friend, and who has a better
warrant for everything in the place? Don’t you know the song--
“And Father Fitz had no cows nor sheep,
And the devil a hen or pig to keep;
But a pleasanter house to dine or sleep
You ‘d never find till morning.”
“For Molly, says he, if the fowls be few,
I ‘ve only one counsel to give to you:
There’s hens hard by--go kill for two,
For I ‘ve a friend till morning.”
By the Rock of Cashel, it ‘ud be a hard case av the priest was to want.
Look how the ould saddle fits him! faix, ye ‘d think he was made for
it!’
I am not quite sure that I felt all Joe’s enthusiasm for the beast’s
perfections; nor did the old yeomanry ‘demi-pique,’ with its brass
mountings and holsters, increase my admiration. Too happy, however, to
leave a spot where all my recollections were now turned to gloom and
despondence, I packed my few traps, and was soon ready for the road.
It was not without a gulping feeling in my throat, and a kind of
suffocating oppression at my heart, that I turned from the little room
where in happier times I had spent so many pleasant hours, and bidding a
last good-bye to the priest’s household, told them to say to Father Tom
how sad I felt at leaving before he returned. This done, I mounted the
little pony, and escorted by Joe, who held the bridle, descended the
hill, and soon found myself by the little rivulet that murmured along
the steep glen through which our path was lying.
CHAPTER XLI. TIPPERARY JOE
I have already passingly alluded to Joe’s conversational powers; and
certainly they were exercised on this occasion with a more than common
ability. Either taking my silence as a suggestion for him to speak, or
perhaps, and more probably, perceiving that some deep depression was
over me, the kind-hearted fellow poured forth his stores of song and
legend without ceasing. Now amusing me by his wild and fitful snatches
of old ballads, now narrating in his simple but touching eloquence some
bygone story of thrilling interest, the long hours of the night passed
over, and at daybreak we found ourselves descending the mountain towards
a large and cultivated valley, in which I could faintly distinguish in
the misty distance the little mill where our relay was to be found.
I stopped for a few minutes to gaze upon the scene before me. It was one
of those peaceful landscapes of rural beauty which beam more of soothing
influence upon the sorrow-struck heart than the softest voice of
consolation. Unlike the works of man, they speak directly to our souls
while they appeal to our reason; and the truth comes forced upon us,
that we alone must not repine. A broad and richly cultivated valley was
bounded by mountains whose sides were clothed with deep wood; a stream,
whose wayward course watered every portion of the plain, was seen now
flowing among the grassy meadows, now peeping from the alders that
lined the banks. The heavy mist of morning was rolling lazily up the
mountain-side; and beneath its grey mantle the rich green of pasture
and meadow land was breaking forth, dotted with cattle and sheep. As I
looked, Joe knelt down and placed his ear upon the ground, and seemed
for some minutes absorbed in listening. Then suddenly springing up, he
cried out--
‘The mill isn’t going to-day! I wonder what’s the matter. I hope Andy
isn’t sick.’
A shade of sorrow came over his wild features as he muttered between his
teeth the verse of some old song, of which I could but catch the last
two lines--
‘And when friends are crying around the dying,
Who wouldn’t wish he had lived alone!’
‘Ay,’ cried he aloud, as his eye glistened with an unnatural lustre,
‘better be poor Tipperary Joe, without house or home, father or mother,
sister or friend, and when the time comes, run to earth, without a wet
eye after him.’
‘Come, come, Joe, you have many a friend! and when you count them over,
don’t forget me in the reckoning.’
‘Whisht, whisht!’ he whispered in a low voice, as if fearful of being
overheard, ‘don’t say that; them’s dangerous words.’
I turned towards him with astonishment, and perceived that his whole
countenance had undergone a striking change. The gay and laughing look
was gone; the bright colour had left his cheek, and a cold, ghastly
paleness was spread over his features; and as he cast a hurried and
stealthy look around him, I could mark that some secret fear was working
within him.
‘What is it, Joe?’ said I; ‘what’s the matter? Are you ill?’
‘No,’ said he, in a tone scarce audible--‘no, but you frightened me just
now when you called me your friend.’
‘How could that frighten you, my poor fellow?’
‘I ‘ll tell you. That’s what they called my father; they said he was
friendly with the gentlemen, and sign’s on it.’ He paused, and his eye
became rooted to the ground as if on some object there from which he
could not turn his gaze. ‘Yes, I mind it well; we were sitting by the
fire in the guard-room all alone by ourselves--the troops was away,
I don’t know where--when we heard the tramp of men marching, but not
regular, but coming as if they didn’t care how, and horses and carts
rattling and rumbling among them.
‘“Thim’s the boys,” says my father. “Give me that ould cockade there,
till I stick it in my cap; and reach me over the fiddle, till I rise a
tune for them.”
‘I mind little more till we was marching at the head of them through the
town, down towards the new college that was building--it’s Maynooth, I’m
speaking about--and then we turned to the left, my father scraping away
all the time every tune he thought they ‘d like; and if now and then
by mistake he ‘d play anything that did not plaze them, they’d damn and
blast him with the dreadfullest curses, and stick a pike into him, till
the blood would come running down his back; and then my father would cry
out--
‘“I’ll tell my friends on you for this--divil a lie in it, but I will”
‘At last we came to the duke’s wall, and then my father sat down on the
roadside, and cried out that he wouldn’t go a step farther, for I was
crying away with sore feet at the pace we were going, and asking every
moment to be let sit down to rest myself.
‘“Look at the child,” said he, “his feet’s all bleeding.”
‘“Ye have only a little farther to go,” says one of them that had
crossed belts on and a green sash about him.
‘“The divil resave another step,” says my father.
‘“Tell Billy to play us ‘The Parmer’s Daughter’ before he goes,” says
one in the crowd.
‘“I ‘d rather hear ‘The Little Bowld Fox,’” says another.
‘“No, no, ‘Baltiorum! Baltiorum!’” says many more behind.
‘“Ye shall have them all,” says my father, “and that’ll plaze ye.”
‘And so he set to, and played the three tunes as beautiful as ever ye
heard; and when he was done, the man with the belts ups and says to
him--
‘“Ye’re a fine hand, Billy, and it’s a pity to lose you, and your
friends will be sorry for you,” and he said this with a grin; “but take
the spade there and dig a hole, for we must be jogging, it’s nigh day.”
‘Well, my father, though he was tired enough, took the spade, and began
digging as they told him; for he thought to himself, “The boys is going
to hide the pikes and the carbines before they go home.” Well, when he
worked half an hour, he threw off his coat, and set to again; and at
last he grew tired and sat down on the side of the big hole, and called
out--
‘“Isn’t it big enough now, boys?”
‘“No,” says the captain, “nor half.”
‘So my father set to once more, and worked away with all his might; and
they all stood by, talking and laughing with one another.
‘“Will it do now?” says my father; “for sure enough I’m clean beat.”
‘“Maybe it might,” says one of them; “lie down, and see if it’s the
length.”
‘“Well, is it that it’s for?” says my father; “faix, I never guessed it
was a grave.” And so he took off his cap and lay down his full length in
the hole.
‘“That’s all right,” says the others, and began with spades and shovels
to cover him up. At first he laughed away as hearty as the rest; but
when the mould grew heavy on him he began to screech out to let him up;
and then his voice grew weaker and fainter, and they waited a little;
then they worked harder, and then came a groan, and all was still; and
they patted the sods over him and heaped them up. And then they took me
and put me in the middle of them, and one called out, “March!” I thought
I saw the green sod moving on the top of the grave as we walked away,
and heard a voice half choking calling out, “There, boys, there!” and
then a laugh. But sure I often hear the same still, when there’s nobody
near me, and I do be looking on the ground by myself.’
‘Great God!’ cried I, ‘is this true?’
‘True as you ‘re there,’ replied he. ‘I was ten years of age when it
happened, and I never knew how time went since, nor how long it is ago;
only it was in the year of the great troubles here, when the soldiers
and the country-people never could be cruel enough to one another; and
whatever one did to-day, the others would try to beat it out to-morrow.
But it’s truth every word of it; and the place is called “Billy the
fool’s grave” to this hour. I go there once a year to see it myself.’
This frightful story--told, too, with all the simple power of
truth--thrilled through me with horror long after the impression seemed
to have faded away from him who told it; and though he still continued
to speak on, I heard nothing; nor did I mark our progress, until I found
myself beside the little stream which conducted to the mill.
CHAPTER XLII. THE HIGHROAD
Joe was right; the mill was not at work, for ‘Andy’ had been summoned
to Ennis, where the assizes were then going forward. The mare which had
formed part of our calculations was also absent; and we sat down in
the little porch to hold a council of war as to our future proceedings.
After canvassing the question for some time, Joe left me for a few
minutes, and returned with the information that the highroad to Ennis
lay only a couple of miles distant, and that a stage-coach would pass
there in about two hours, by which I could reach the town that evening.
It was therefore decided that he should return with the pony to
Murranakilty; while I, having procured a gossoon to carry my baggage,
made the best of my way towards the Ennis road.
Joe soon found me an urchin to succeed him as my guide and companion;
and with an affectionate leave-taking, and a faithful promise to meet me
sometime and somewhere, we parted.
So long as I had journeyed along beside my poor, half-witted follower,
the strange and fickle features of his wandering intellect had somehow
interrupted the channels of my own feelings, and left me no room for
reflection on my changed fortunes. Now, however, my thoughts returned to
the past with all the force of some dammed-up current, and my blighted
hopes threw a dark and sombre shadow over all my features. What cared
I what became of me? Why did I hasten hither and thither? These were my
first reflections. If life had lost its charm, so had misfortune lost
its terror. There seemed something frivolous and contemptible in the
return to those duties which in all the buoyant exhilaration of my
former life had ever seemed unfitting and unmanly. No! rather let me
seek for some employment on active service. The soldier’s career I once
longed for, to taste its glorious enthusiasm--that I wished for now, to
enjoy its ceaseless movement and exertion.
As I thought over all I had seen and gone through since my arrival in
Ireland--its varied scenes of mirth and woe; its reckless pleasures, its
wilder despair--I believed that I had acquired a far deeper insight into
my own heart in proportion as I looked more into those of others. A not
unfrequent error this. The outstretched page of human nature that I had
been gazing on had shown me the passions and feelings of other men laid
bare before me, while my own heart was dark, enshrined, and unvisited
within me. I believed that life had no longer anything to tie me to
it--and I was not then twenty! Had I counted double as many years, I had
had more reason for the belief, and more difficulty to think so.
Sometimes I endeavoured to console myself by thinking of all the
obstacles that under the happiest circumstances must have opposed
themselves to my union with Louisa Bellew. My mother’s pride alone
seemed an insurmountable one. But then I thought of what a noble part
had lain before me, to prefer the object of my love--the prize of my
own winning--to all the caresses of fortune, all the seductions of the
world. Sir Simon Bellew, too--what could he mean? The secret he alluded
to, what was it? Alas! what mattered it? My doom was sealed, my fate
decided; I had no care how.
Such were my thoughts as I journeyed along the path that conducted
towards the highroad; while my little guide--barelegged and barefooted,
trotted on merrily before me--who, with none of this world’s goods, had
no room in his heart for sorrow or repining.
We at last reached the road, which, dusty and deserted, skirted the side
of a bleak mountain for miles--not a house to be seen; not a traveller,
nor scarce a wheel-track, to mark the course of any one having passed
there. I had not followed it for more than half an hour when I heard
the tramp of horses and the roll which announced the approach of an
equipage. A vast cloud of dust, through which a pair of leaders were
alone visible, appeared at a distance. I seated myself at the roadside
to await its coming, my little gossoon beside me, evidently not sorry
to have reached a resting-place; and once more my thoughts returned to
their well-worn channel, and my head sank on my bosom. I forgot where I
was, when suddenly the prancing of a pair of horses close to me aroused
me from my stupor, and a postillion called out to me in no very subdued
accent--
‘Will ye hook on that trace there, avick, av ye ‘re not asleep?’
Whether it was my look of astonishment at the tone and the nature of the
request, or delay in acceding to it, I know not; but a hearty curse
from the fellow on the wheelers perfectly awakened me, and I replied by
something not exactly calculated to appease the heat of the discussion.
‘Begorra,’ said he of the leaders, ‘it’s always the way with your shabby
genteels!’ and he swung himself down from the saddle to perform the
required service himself.
During this operation I took the opportunity of looking at the
carriage, which was a large and handsome barouche, surrounded by all the
appurtenances of travel--cap-cases, imperials, etc.; a fat-looking, lazy
footman was nodding sleepily on the box, and a well-tanned lady’s-maid
was reading a novel in the rumble. Within I saw the figure of a
lady, whose magnificent style of dress but little accorded with the
unfrequented road she was traversing and the wild inhabitants so thinly
scattered through it. As I looked, she turned round suddenly; and,
before I could recognise her, she called out my name. The voice in an
instant reassured me: it was Mrs. Paul Rooney herself!
‘Stop!’ cried she, with a wave of her jewelled hand. ‘Michael, get down.
Only think of meeting you here, Captain!’
I stammered out some explanation about a cross-cut over the mountain
to catch the stage, and my desire to reach Ennis; while the unhappy
termination of our intimacy, and my mother’s impertinent letter kept
ever uppermost in my mind, and made me confused and uneasy. Mrs. Paul,
however, had evidently no participation in such feelings, but welcomed
me with her wonted cordiality, and shook my hand with a warmth that
proved, if she had not forgotten, she had certainly forgiven, the whole
affair.
‘And so you are going to Ennis!’ said she, as I assumed the place beside
her in the barouche, while Michael was busily engaged in fastening on my
luggage behind--the two movements seeming to be as naturally performed
as though the amiable lady had been in the habit of taking up walking
gentlemen with a portmanteau every day of her life. ‘Well, how
fortunate! I’m going there too. Pole [so she now designated her
excellent spouse, it being the English for Paul] has some little
business with the chief-justice--two murder cases, and a forcible
abduction--and I promised to take him up on my return from Milltown,
where I have been spending a few weeks. After that we return to our
little place near Bray, where I hope you ‘ll come and spend a few weeks
with us.’
‘This great pleasure I fear I must deny myself,’ said I, ‘for I have
already outstayed my leave, and have unfortunately somehow incurred the
displeasure of his Excellency; and unless’--here I dropped my voice, and
stole a half-timid look at the lady under my eyelashes--‘some one with
influence over his grace shall interfere on my behalf, I begin to fear
lest I may find myself in a sad scrape.’
Mrs. Paul blushing, turned away her head; and while pressing my hand
softly in her own, she murmured--
‘Don’t fret about it; it won’t signify.’
I could scarce repress a smile at the success of my bit of flattery,
for as such alone I intended it, when she turned towards me, and, as if
desirous to change the topic, said--
‘Well, we heard of all your doings--your steeplechase and your duel and
your wound, and all that; but what became of you afterwards?’
‘Oh,’ said I hesitatingly, ‘I was fortunate enough to make a most
agreeable acquaintance, and with him I have been spending a few weeks on
the coast--Father Tom Loftus.’
‘Father Tom!’ said Mrs. Rooney with a laugh--‘the pleasantest crayture
in Ireland! There isn’t the like of him. Did he sing you the “Priest’s
Supper?”’ The lady blushed as she said these words, as if carried away
by a momentary excitement to speak of matters not exactly suitable; and
then drawing herself up, she continued in a more measured tone: ‘You
know, Captain, one meets such strange people in this world.’
‘To be sure, Mrs. Rooney,’ said I encouragingly; ‘and to one like
yourself, who can appreciate character, Father Loftus is indeed a gem.’
Mrs. Rooney, however, only smiled her assent, and again changed the
course of the conversation.
‘You met the Bellews, I suppose, when down in the west?’
‘Yes,’ stammered I; ‘I saw a good deal of Sir Simon when in that
country.’
‘Ah, the poor man!’ said she with real feeling, ‘what an unhappy lot his
has been!’
Supposing that she alluded to his embarrassment as to fortune, the
difficulties which pressed upon him from money causes, I merely muttered
my assent.
‘But I suppose,’ continued she, ‘you have heard the whole story, though
the unhappy event occurred when you were a mere child.’
‘I am not aware to what you allude,’ said I eagerly, while a suspicion
shot across my mind that the secret of Sir Simon Bellow’s letter was at
length to be cleared up.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Rooney with a sigh, ‘I mean poor dear Lady Bellow’s
affair--when she went away with a major of dragoons; and to be sure
an elegant young man he was, they said. Pole was on the inquest, and I
heard him say he was the handsomest man he ever saw in his life.’
‘He died suddenly, then?’
‘He was shot by Sir Simon in a duel the very day-week after the
elopement.’
‘And she?’ said I.
‘Poor thing! she died of a consumption, or some say a broken heart, the
same summer.’
‘That is a sad story, indeed,’ said I musingly; ‘and I no longer wonder
that the poor old man should be such as he is.’
‘No, indeed; but then he was very much blamed after all, for he never
had that Jerningham out of the house.’
‘Horace Jerningham!’ cried I, as a cold sickening fear crept over me.
‘Oh, yes, that was his name. He was the Honourable Horace Jerningham,
the younger son of some very high family in England; and, indeed,
the elder brother has died since, and they say the title has become
extinct.’
It is needless for me to attempt any description of the feelings that
agitated my heart, when I say that Horace Jerningham was the brother of
my own mother. I remembered when a child to have heard something of
a dreadful duel, when all the family went into deep mourning, and my
mother’s health suffered so severely that her life was at one time
feared for; but that fate should have ever thrown me into intimacy with
those upon whom this grievous injury was inflicted, and by whom death
and mourning were brought upon my house, was a sad and overwhelming
affliction that rendered me stunned and speechless. How came it then,
thought I, that my mother never recognised the name of her brother’s
antagonist when speaking of Miss Bellew in her letter to me? Before I
had time to revolve this doubt in my mind Mrs. Rooney had explained it.
‘And this was the beginning of all his misfortunes. The friends of the
poor young man were people of great influence, and set every engine to
work to ruin Sir Simon, or, as he then was, Mr. Simon Barrington. At
last they got him outlawed; and it was only the very year he came to the
title and estates of his uncle that the outlawry was taken off, and
he was once more enabled to return to Ireland. However, they had their
revenge if they wished for it; for what between recklessness and bad
company, he took to gambling when abroad, contracted immense debts, and
came into his fortune little better than a beggar. Since then the world
has seen little of him, and indeed he owes it but little favour. Under
Pole’s management the property is now rapidly improving; but the old man
cares little for this, and all I believe he wishes for is to have health
enough to go over to the Continent and place his daughter in a convent
before he dies.’
Little did she guess how every word sank deep into my heart. Every
sentence of the past was throwing its shadow over all my future, and the
utter wreck of my hopes seemed now inevitable.
While thus I sat brooding over my gloomiest thoughts, Mrs. Rooney,
evidently affected by the subject, maintained a perfect silence. At
last, however, she seemed to have summed up the whole case in her mind,
as turning to me confidentially, with her hand pressed upon my arm, she
added in a true moralising cadence, very different from that she had
employed when her feelings were really engaged--
‘And that’s what always comes of it when a gallant, gay Lutherian gets
admission into a family.’
Shall I confess, that, notwithstanding the deep sorrow of my heart,
I could scarce repress an outbreak of laughter at these words! We now
chatted away on a variety of subjects, till the concourse of people
pressing onwards to the town, the more thickly populated country, and
the distant view of chimneys apprised us we were approaching Ennis.
Notwithstanding all my wishes to get on as fast as might be, I found it
impossible to resist an invitation to dine that day with the Rooneys,
who had engaged a small select party at the Head Inn, where Mrs.
Rooney’s apartments were already awaiting her.
It was dusk when we arrived, and I could only perceive that the gloomy
and narrow streets were densely crowded with country-people, who
conversed together in groups. Here and there a knot of legal folk were
congregated, chatting in a louder tone; and before the court-house stood
the carriage of the chief-justice, with a guard of honour of the county
yeomanry, whose unsoldierlike attitudes and droll equipments were
strongly provocative of laughter. The postillions, who had with true
tact reserved a ‘trot for the town,’ whipped and spurred with all their
might; and as we drove through the thronged streets a changed impression
fled abroad that we were the bearers of a reprieve, and a hearty cheer
from the mob followed us to our arrival at the inn door--a compliment
which Mrs. Paul, in nowise attributing to anything save her own peculiar
charms and deserts, most graciously acknowledged by a smile and a wave
of her hand, accompanied by an unlimited order for small beer--which
act of grace was, I think, even more popular than their first impression
concerning us.
‘Ah, Captain,’ said the lady, with a compassionate smile, as I handed
her out of the carriage, ‘they are so attached to the aristocracy!’
CHAPTER XLIII. THE ASSIZE TOWN
When I had dressed, I found that I had above an hour to spare before
dinner; so taking my hat I strolled out into the town. The streets were
even more crowded now than before. The groups of country-people were
larger, and as they conversed together in their native tongue, with
all the violent gesticulation and energetic passion of their nature, an
inexperienced spectator might well have supposed them engaged in active
strife. Now and then a kind of movement, a species of suppressed murmur
from the court-house, would turn every eye in that direction; and then
every voice was hushed, not a man moved. It was evident that some trial
of the deepest interest was going forward, and on inquiry I learned that
it was a murder case, in which six men were concerned. I heard also that
the only evidence against them was from one of their own party, who
had turned, as the lawyers term it, ‘approver.’ I knew well that no
circumstance was more calculated than this to call forth all that
is best and worst in Irish character, and thought, as I walked along
through the dense crowd, I could trace in the features around me the
several emotions by which they were moved.
Here was an old grey-headed man leaning on a staff, his lack-lustre eyes
gazing in wonder at some speaker who narrated a portion of the trial,
his face all eagerness, and his hands tremulous with anxiety; but I felt
I could read the deep sorrow of his heart as he listened to the deed of
blood, and wondered how men would risk their tenure of a life which in
a few days more, perhaps, he himself was to leave for ever. Here beside
him was a tall and powerfully-built countryman, his hat drawn upon his
eyes, that peered forth from their shadow dark, lustrous, and almost
wild in their expression; his face, tanned by season and exposure, was
haggard and care-worn, and in his firmly-clenched lips and fast-locked
jaw you could read the resolute purpose of one who could listen
to nothing save the promptings of the spirit of vengeance, and his
determination that blood should have blood. Some there were whose
passionate tones and violent gestures showed that all their sympathy for
the prisoners was merged in the absorbing feeling of detestation for
the informer; and you could mark in such groups as these that more women
were mingled, whose bloodshot eyes and convulsed features made them
appear the very demons of strife itself. But the most painful sight of
all was the children who were assembled around every knot of speakers,
their eyes staring and their ears eagerly drinking in each word that
dropped; no trace of childhood’s happy carelessness was there, no sign
of that light-hearted youth that knows no lasting sorrow. No: theirs
were the rigid features of intense passion, in which fear, suspicion,
craft, but above all, the thirst for revenge, were writ. There were some
whose clenched hand and darkened brow betokened the gloomy purpose of
their hearts; there were others whose outpoured wrath heaped curses on
him who had betrayed his fellows. There was grief, violent, wild, and
frantic; there was mute and speechless suffering; but not a tear did I
see, not even on the cheek of childhood or of woman. No! their seared
and withered sorrow no dew of tears had ever watered; like a blighting
simoon the spirit of revenge had passed over them, and scorched and
scathed all the verdant charities of life. The law which in other lands
is looked to for protection and security, was regarded by them as an
instrument of tyranny; they neither understood its spirit nor trusted
its decisions; and when its blow fell upon them, they bent their heads
in mournful submission, to raise them when opportunity offered in wild
and stern defiance. Its denunciations came to them sudden and severe;
they deemed the course of justice wayward and capricious, the only
feature of certainty in its operation being that its victim was ever
the poor man. The passionate elements of their wild natures seemed but
ill-adapted to the slow-sustained current of legal investigation; they
looked upon all the details of evidence as the signs of vindictive
malice, and thought that trickery and deceit were brought in arms
against them. Hence each face among the thousands there bore the traces
of that hardened, dogged suffering that tells us that the heart is
rather steeled with the desire to avenge than bowed to weep over the
doomed.
Before the court-house a detachment of soldiers was drawn up under arms,
their unmoved features and fixed attitudes presenting a strange contrast
to the excited expressions and changeful gestures of those about them.
The crowd at this part was thickest, and I could perceive in their eager
looks and mute expressions that something more than common had attracted
their attention. My own interest was, however, directed in another
quarter; for through the open window of the court-house I could hear
the words of a speaker, whom I soon recognised as the counsel for the
prisoners addressing the jury. My foraging-cap passed me at once
through the ranks, and after some little crushing I succeeded in gaining
admission to the body of the court.
Such was the crowd within, I could see nothing but the heads of a
closely-wedged mass of people, save at the distant part of the court
the judges, and to their right the figure of the pleader, whose back was
turned towards me.
Little as I heard of the speech, I was overwhelmed with surprise at what
I did hear. Touching on the evidence of the ‘approver’ but slightly, the
advocate dwelt with a terrific force upon the degraded character of a
man who could trade upon the blood of his former friends and associates.
Scarce stopping to canvass how the testimony bore home upon the
prisoners, he burst forth into an impassioned appeal to the hearts of
the jury on faith betrayed and vows forsworn, and pictured forth the man
who could thus surrender his fellows to the scaffold as a monster whose
evidence no man could trust, no jury confide in; and when he had
thus heightened the colouring of his description by every power of an
eloquence that made the very building ring, he turned suddenly towards
the informer himself, as, pale, wan, and conscience-stricken,
he cowered beneath the lightning glance from an eye that seemed to
pierce his secret soul within him, and apostrophising his virtues, he
directed every glance upon the miserable wretch that writhed beneath
his sarcasm. This seemed, indeed, the speakers forte. Never did I hear
anything so tremendous as the irony with which he described the credit
due to one who had so often been sworn and forsworn--‘who took an oath
of allegiance to his king, and an oath of fealty to his fellows, and
now is here this day with a third oath, by which, in the blood of his
victim, he is to ratify his perjury to both, and secure himself an
honourable independence.’ The caustic satire verged once--only once--on
something that produced a laugh, when the orator suddenly stopped:--
‘I find, my lord, I have raised a smile. God knows, never did I feel
less merriment. Let me not be condemned. Let not the laugh be mistaken.
Few are those events that are produced by folly and vice that fire the
hearts with indignation, but something in them will shake the sides
with laughter. So, when the two famous moralists of old beheld the sad
spectacle of Life, the one burst into laughter, the other melted into
tears. They were each of them right, and equally right. But these laughs
are the bitter, rueful laughs of honest indignation, or they are the
laughs of hectic melancholy and despair. But look there, and tell me
where is your laughter now!’
With these words he turned fully round and pointed his finger to
the dock, where the six prisoners side by side leaned their haggard,
deathlike faces upon the rail, and gazed with stupid wonder at the scene
before them. Four of the number did not even know the language, but
seemed by the instinct of their position to feel the nature of the
appeal their advocate was making, and turned their eyes around the court
as if in search of some one look of pity or encouragement that should
bring comfort to their hearts.
The whole thing was too dreadful to bear longer, so I forced my way
through the crowd, and at last reached the steps in front of the
building. But here a new object of horror presented itself, and one
which to this hour I cannot chase from before me. In the open space
between the line formed by the soldiers and the court knelt a woman,
whose tattered garments scarce covered a figure emaciated nearly to
starvation; her cheeks, almost blue with famine, were pinched inwards,
and her hands, which she held clasped with outstretched arms before her,
were like the skinny claws of some wild animal. As she neither spoke nor
stirred, there was no effort made to remove her; and there she knelt,
her eyes, bloodshot and staring, bent upon the door of the building. A
vague fear took possession of me. Somewhere I had seen that face before.
I drew near, and as a cold thrill ran through my blood, I remembered
where. She was the wife of the man by whose bedside I had watched in the
mountains. A half dread of being recognised by her kept me back for a
moment; then came the better feeling that perhaps I might be able to
serve her, and I walked towards her. But though she turned her eyes
towards me as I approached, her look had no intelligence in it, and I
could plainly see that reason had fled, and left nothing save the poor
suffering form behind it. I endeavoured to attract her attention, but
all in vain. At last I tried by gentle force to induce her to leave the
place; but a piercing shriek, like one whose tones had long dwelt in my
heart, broke from her, with a look of such unutterable anguish, that
I was obliged to desist and leave her. The crowd made way for me as I
passed out, and I could see in their looks and demeanour the expression
of grateful acknowledgment for even this show of feeling on my part;
while some muttered as I went by, ‘God reward ye,’ ‘the Lord be good
to ye,’ as though at that moment they had nothing in their hearts save
thoughts of kindness and words of blessing.
I reached my room, and sat down a sadder, perhaps a wiser man; and yet
I know not this. It would need a clearer head than mine to trace all the
varying and discordant elements of character I had witnessed to their
true source; to sift the evil from the good; to know what to cherish,
what to repress, whereon to build hope or what to fear. Such was this
country once! Has it changed since?
CHAPTER XLIV. THE BAD DINNER
At nine o’clock the jury retired, and a little afterwards the front
drawing-room of the Head Inn was becoming every moment more crowded,
as the door opened to admit the several members of the bar, invited to
partake of Mrs. Rooney’s hospitalities. Mrs. Rooney’s, I say; for
the etiquette of the circuit forbidding the attorney to entertain the
dignitaries of the craft, Paul was only present at his own table on
sufferance, and sought out the least obtrusive place he could find among
the juniors and side-dishes.
No one who could have seen the gay, laughing, merry mob of shrewd,
cunning-looking men that chatted away there would have imagined them a
few moments previously engaged in a question where the lives of four of
their fellow-men hung in the balance, and where at the very moment the
deliberation was continuing that should, perhaps, sentence them to death
upon the scaffold.
The instincts of a profession are narrow and humiliating things to
witness. The surgeon who sees but in the suffering agony of his patient
the occasional displacement of certain anatomical details is little
better than a savage; the lawyer who watches the passions of hope and
fear, distrust, dread, and suspicion, only to take advantage of them
in his case, is far worse than a savage. I confess, on looking at these
men, I could never divest myself of the impression that the hired and
paid-for passion of the advocate, the subtlety that is engaged special,
the wit that is briefed, the impetuous rush of indignant eloquence that
is bottled up from town to town in circuit, and like soda-water grows
weaker at every corking, make but a poor _ensemble_ of qualities for the
class who, _par excellence_, stand at the head of professional life.
One there was, indeed, whose haggard eye and blanched cheek showed no
semblance of forgetting the scene in which so lately he had been an
actor. This was the lawyer who had defended the prisoners. He sat in a
window, resting his head upon his hand--fatigue, exhaustion, but more
than all, intense feeling, portrayed in every lineament of his pale
face.
‘Ah,’ said the gay, jovial-looking attorney-general, slapping him
familiarly on the shoulder--‘ah, my dear fellow; not tired, I hope. The
court was tremendously hot; but come, rally a bit: we shall want you.
Bennet and O’Grady have disappointed us, it seems; but you are a host in
yourself.’
‘Maybe so,’ replied the other faintly, and scarce lifting his eyes; ‘but
you can’t depend on my elevation.’
The ease and readiness of the reply, as well as the tones of the voice,
struck me; and I perceived that it was no other than the prior of the
Monks of the Screw who had spoken. Mrs. Rooney made her appearance at
the moment, and my attention was soon taken away by the announcement of
dinner.
One of the judges arrived in time to offer his arm, and I could not
help feeling amused at the mock-solemnity of the procession, as we moved
along. The judge, I may observe, was a young man, lately promoted, and
one whose bright eye and bold, dashing expression bore many more traces
of the outer bar than it smacked of the dull gravity of the bench. He
took the end of the table beside Mrs. Paul, and the others soon seated
themselves promiscuously along the table.
There is a species of gladiatorial exhibition in lawyers’ society which
is certainly very amusing. No one speaks without the foreknowledge that
he is to be caught up, punned up, or ridiculed, as the case may be. The
whole conversation is therefore a hailstorm of short stories, quips,
and retorts, intermingled with details of successful bar-stratagems, and
practical jokes played off upon juries. With less restraint than at a
military mess, there is a strong professional feeling of deference for
the seniors, and much more tact and knowledge of the world to unite
them. While thus the whole conversation ran on topics of the circuit, I
was amazed at Mrs. Rooney’s perfect intimacy with all the niceties of
a law joke, or the fun of a _nisi prius_ story. She knew the chief
peculiarities of the several persons alluded to, and laughed loud and
long at the good things she listened to. The judge alone, above all
others, had the lady’s ear. His bold but handsome features, his rich
commanding voice (nothing the worse that it was mellowed by a little
brogue), his graceful action and manly presence, stamped him as one well
suited to be successful wherever good looks, ready tact, and consummate
conversational powers have a field for their display. His stories were
few, but always pertinent and well told; and frequently the last joke at
the table was capped by him, when no one else could have ventured to
try it, while the rich roll of his laugh was a guarantee for mirth that
never failed.
It was just when my attention was drawn off by Mrs. Booney to some
circumstance of our former intimacy, that a hearty burst of laughing
from the end of the table told that something unusually absurd was being
related.
‘Yes, sir,’ said a shrewd-looking, thin old fellow in spectacles, ‘we
capitulated, on condition of leaving the garrison with all the honours
of war; and, ‘faith, the sheriff was only too glad to comply.’
‘Bob Mahon is certainly a bold fellow, and never hard pushed, whatever
you may do with him.’
‘Bob Mahon!’ said I: ‘what of him?’
‘Keatley has just been telling how he held the jail of Ennis for four
weeks against the sheriff. The jailer was an old tenant of his, and
readily came into his plans. They were victualled for a long siege, and
as the place was strong they had nothing to fear. When the garrison was
summoned to surrender, they put a charge of No. 4 into the sub-sheriff,
that made him move to the rear; and as the prisoners were all coming
from the assizes, they were obliged to let him have his own terms if he
‘d only consent to come out. So they gave him twelve hours’ law, and a
clear run for it? and he’s away.’
This was indeed a very quick realisation of Father Tom’s prediction, and
I joined in the mirth the story elicited--not the less readily that I
was well acquainted with the principal actor in it.
While the laughter still continued, the door opened, and a young
barrister stole into the room and whispered a few words into the ear of
the counsel for the prisoners. He leaned back in his chair, and pushed
his wine-glass hurriedly before him.
‘What, Collinson!’ cried the attorney-general, ‘have they agreed?’ ‘Yes,
sir--a verdict of guilty.’
‘Of course; the evidence was too home for a doubt,’ said he, filling his
glass from the decanter.
A sharp glance from the dark eye of the opposite counsel was the only
reply, as he rose and left the room.
‘Our friend has taken a more than common interest in this case,’ was
the cool observation of the last speaker; ‘but there was no getting
over Hanlon’s testimony.’ Here he entered into some detail of the trial,
while the buzz and confusion of voices became greater than ever. I took
this opportunity of making my escape, and joined Mrs. Rooney, who a
short time before had retired to the drawing-room.
Mrs. Paul had contrived, even in the short space since her arrival, to
have converted the drawing-room into a semblance of something like an
apartment in a private house--books, prints, and flowers, judiciously
disposed, as well as an open pianoforte, giving it an air of comfort and
propriety far different from its ordinary seeming. She was practising
Moore’s newly-published song of, ‘My from this world, dear Bessy, with
me,’ as I entered.
‘Pray, continue, my dear Mrs. Rooney,’ said I: ‘I will take it as the
greatest possible favour----’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs..Paul, throwing up her eyes in the most languishing
ecstasy--‘ah, you have a soul, I know you have!’
Protesting that I had strong reasons to believe so, I renewed my
entreaty.
‘Yes,’ said she, musing, and in a Siddons tone of soliloquy, ‘yes, the
poet is right--
“Music hath charms to _smooth_ the savage _beast_.”
But I really can’t sing the melodies--they are too much for me. The
allusion to former times, when King O’Toole and the rest of the royal
family---- Ah, you are aware, I believe, that family reasons----’
Here she pressed her embroidered handkerchief to her eyes with one hand,
while she pressed mine convulsively with the other.
‘Yes, yes,’ said I hurriedly, while a strong temptation to laugh
outright seized me; ‘I have heard that your descent----’
‘Yes, my dear; if it wasn’t for the Danes, and the cruel battle of the
Boyne, there’s no saying where I might not be seated now.’
She leaned on the piano as she spoke, and seemed overpowered with
sorrow. At this instant the door opened, and the judge made his
appearance.
‘A thousand pardons for the indiscretion,’ said he, stepping back as he
saw me sitting with the lady’s hand in mine. I sprang up, confused and
ashamed, and rushing past him hurried downstairs.
I knew how soon my adventure, for such it would grow into, would be the
standing jest of the bar mess; and not feeling disposed to be present at
their mirth, I ordered a chaise, and before half an hour elapsed was on
my road to Dublin.
CHAPTER XLV. THE RETURN
We never experience to the full how far sorrow has made its inroad upon
us until we come back, after absence, to the places where we have once
been happy, and find them lone and tenantless. While we recognise each
old familiar object, we see no longer those who gave them all their
value in our eyes; every inanimate thing about speaks to our senses,
but where are they who were wont to speak to our hearts? The solitary
chamber is then, indeed, but the body of all our pleasure, from which
the soul has departed for ever.
These feelings were mine as I paced the old well-worn stairs, and
entered my quarters in the Castle. No more I heard the merry laugh of my
friend O’Grady, nor his quick step upon the stair. The life, the stir,
the bustle of the place itself seemed to have all fled; the court echoed
only to the measured tread of the grenadier, who marched backwards
and forwards beside the flagstaff in the centre of the open space. No
cavalcade of joyous riders, no prancing horses led about by grooms, no
showy and splendid equipages; all was still, sad, and neglected-looking.
The dust whirled about in circling eddies, as the cold wind of an
autumnal day moaned through the arched passages and gloomy corridors of
the old building. A care-worn official, or some slatternly inferior of
the household, would perhaps pass from time to time; but except such as
these, nothing stirred. The closed shutters and drawn-down blinds showed
that the viceroy was absent and I found myself the only occupant of the
building.
It requires the critical eye of the observant resident of great cities
to mark the changes which season and fashion effect in their appearance.
To one unaccustomed to their phases it seems strange to hear, ‘How empty
the town is! how very few people are in London!’--while the heavy tide
of population pours incessantly around him, and his ear is deafened
with the ceaseless roll of equipage. But in such a city as Dublin the
alteration is manifest to the least observant. But little frequented by
the country gentry, and never except for the few months when the court
is there; still less visited by foreigners; deserted by the professional
classes, at least such of them as are independent enough to absent
themselves--the streets are actually empty. The occupations of trade,
the bustle of commerce, that through every season continue their
onward course in the great trading cities such as Liverpool, Hamburg,
Frankfort, and Bourdeaux, scarce exist here; and save that the tattered
garments of mendicancy, and the craving cries of hunger are ever before
you, you might fall into a drowsy reverie as you walked, and dream
yourself in Palmyra.
I had strolled about for above an hour, in the moody frame of mind my
own reflections and the surrounding objects were well calculated to
suggest, when, meeting by accident a subaltern with whom I was slightly
acquainted, I heard that the court had that morning left the Lodge in
the Park for Kilkenny, where the theatricals of that pleasant city were
going forward--a few members of the household alone remaining, who were
to follow in a day or two.
For some days previous I had made up my mind not to remain in Ireland.
Every tie that bound me to the country was broken. I had no heart to set
about forming new friendships while the wounds of former ones were
still fresh and bleeding; and I longed for change of scene and active
occupation, that I might have no time to reflect or look back.
Resolving to tender my resignation on the duke’s staff without any
further loss of time, I set out at once for the Park. I arrived there in
the very nick of time; the carriages were at the entrance, waiting for
the private secretary of his grace and two of the aides-de-camp, who
were eating a hurried luncheon before starting. One of the aides-de-camp
I knew but slightly, the other was a perfect stranger to me; but the
secretary, Horton, was an intimate acquaintance. He jumped up from his
chair as my name was announced, and a deep blush covered his face as he
advanced to meet me.
‘My dear Hinton, how unfortunate! Why weren’t you here yesterday? It’s
too late now.’
‘Too late for what? I don’t comprehend you.’
‘Why, my dear fellow,’ said he, drawing his arm within mine, and leading
me towards a window, as he dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘I believe
you heard from me that his grace was provoked at your continued absence,
and expected at least that you would have written to ask an extension
of your leave. I don’t know how it was, but it seemed to me that the
duchess came back from England with some crotchet in her head, about
something she heard in London. In any case, they ordered me to write.’
‘Well, well,’ said I impatiently; ‘I guess it all. I have got my
dismissal. Isn’t that the whole of it?’
He nodded twice, without speaking.
‘It only anticipates my own wishes,’ said I coolly, ‘as this note may
satisfy you.’ I placed the letter I had written for the purpose of my
resignation in his hand, and continued: ‘I am quite convinced in my own
mind that his grace, whose kindness towards me has never varied, would
never have dreamed of this step on such slight grounds as my absence.
No, no; the thing lies deeper. At any other time I should certainly have
wished to trace this matter to its source; now, however, chiming as it
does with my own plans, and caring little how fortune intends to treat
me, I’ll submit in silence.’
‘And take no notice of the affair further?’
‘Such is my determination,’ said I resolutely.
‘In that case,’ said Horton, ‘I may tell you that some story of a lady
had reached the duchess, when in London--some girl that it was reported
you endeavoured to seduce, and had actually followed for that purpose
to the west of Ireland. There, there! don’t take the matter up that way,
for heaven’s sake! My dear fellow, hear me out!’ But I could hear no
more; the rushing blood that crowded on my brain stunned and stupefied
me, and it took several minutes before I became sufficiently collected
to ask him to go on.
‘I heard the thing so confusedly,’ said he, ‘that I cannot attempt
anything like connection in relating it. But the story goes that your
duel in Loughrea did not originate about the steeplechase at all, but in
a quarrel about this girl, with her brother or her cousin, who, having
discovered your intentions regarding her, you wished to get rid of, as a
preliminary. No one but a fool could credit such a thing.’
‘None but such could have invented it,’ said I, as my thoughts at once
recurred to Lord Dudley de Vere.
‘The duke, however, spoke to General Hinton----’
‘To my father! And how did he----’
‘Oh, behaved as only he could have done: “Stop, my lord!” said he; “I’ll
spare you any further relation of this matter. If it be true, my son is
unworthy of remaining on your staff. If it be false, I’ll not permit him
to hold an appointment where his reputation has been assailed without
affording him an opportunity of defence.” High words ensued, and the end
was that if you appeared before to-day, you were to hear the charge and
have an opportunity for reply. If not, your dismissal was to be made
out, and another appointed in your place. Now that I have told you what
I feel the indiscretion of my ever having spoken of, promise me, my
dear Hinton, that you will take no step in the matter. The intrigue is
altogether beneath you, and your character demands no defence on your
part.’
‘I almost suspect I know the person,’ said I gloomily.
‘No, no; I’m certain you can’t. It is some woman’s story; some piece of
tea-table gossip, depend on it--in any case, quite unworthy of caring
about.’
‘At all events, I am too indifferent at this moment to feel otherwise
about anything,’ said I. ‘So, good-bye; Horton. My regards to all our
fellows; good-bye!’
‘Good-bye, my boy,’ said he, warmly shaking my hand. ‘But, stop a
moment, I have got some letters for you; they arrived only a few days
since.’
He took a packet from a drawer as he spoke, and once more bidding him
adieu, I set out on my return to the Castle.
CHAPTER XLVI. FAREWELL TO IRELAND
My first care on reaching my quarters was to make preparations for my
departure by the packet of the same evening; my next was to sit down and
read over my letters. As I turned them over, I remarked that there
were none from my father or Lady Charlotte; there was, however, one in
Julia’s hand, and also a note from O’Grady. The others were the mere
commonplace correspondence of everyday acquaintances, which I merely
threw my eyes carelessly over ere I consigned them to the fire. My
fair cousin’s possessed--I cannot explain why--a most unusual degree of
interest for me; and throwing myself back in my chair, I gave myself up
to its perusal.
The epistle opened by a half-satirical account of the London season then
nearly drawing to its close, in which various characters and incidents
I have not placed before my readers, but all well known to me,
were touched with that quiet, subdued raillery she excelled in. The
flirtations, the jiltings, the matches that were on or off, the rumoured
duels, debts, and difficulties of every one we were acquainted with,
were told with a most amusing smartness--all showing, young as she was,
how thoroughly the wear and tear of fashionable life had invested her
with the intricate knowledge of character, and the perfect acquaintance
with all the intrigues and byplay of the world. ‘How unlike Louisa
Bellew!’ said I, as I laid down the letter after reading a description
of a manoeuvring mamma and obedient daughter to secure the prize of the
season, with a peerage and some twenty thousand pounds per annum. It was
true they were the vices and the follies of the age which she ridiculed;
but why should she have ever known them? Ought she to have been
conversant with such a state of society as would expose them? Were it
not better, like Louisa Bellew, to have passed her days amid the simple,
unexciting scenes of secluded life, than to have purchased all the
brilliancy of her wit and the dazzle of her genius at the price of true
womanly delicacy and refinement? While I asked and answered myself these
questions to the satisfaction of my own heart, I could not dismiss the
thought, that amid such scenes as London presented, with such associates
as fashion necessitated, the unprotected simplicity of Miss Bellew’s
character would expose her to much both of raillery and coldness; and I
felt that she would be nearly as misplaced among the proud daughters of
haughty England as my fair cousin in the unfashionable freedom of Dublin
life.
I confess, as I read on, that old associations came crowding upon me.
The sparkling brilliancy of Julia’s style reminded me of the charms of
her conversational powers, aided by all the loveliness of her beauty,
and all that witchery which your true belle of fashion knows how, so
successfully, to spread around her; and it was with a flush of
burning shame on my cheek I acknowledged to myself how much her
letter interested me. As I continued, I saw O’Grady*s name, and to my
astonishment found the following:--
‘Lady Charlotte came back from the duke’s ball greatly pleased with a
certain Major of dragoons, who, among his other excellent qualities,
turns out to be a friend of yours. This estimable person, whose name is
O’Grady, has done much to dissipate her ladyship’s prejudices regarding
Irishmen--the repose of his manner, and the quiet, unassuming, well-bred
tone of his address being all so opposed to her preconceived notions of
his countrymen. He dines here twice or thrice a week, and as he is to
sail soon, may happily preserve the bloom of his reputation to the last.
My estimate of him is somewhat different. I think him a bold _effronté_
kind of person, esteeming himself very highly, and thinking little
of other people. He has, however, a delightful old thing, his servant
Corny, whom I am never tired of, and shall really miss much when he
leaves us.
‘Now as to yourself, dear cousin, what mean all the secret hints and sly
looks and doubtful speeches about you here! The mysteries of Udolpho are
plain reading compared to your doings. Her ladyship never speaks of
you but as “that poor boy,” accompanying the epithet with the sigh with
which one speaks of a shipwreck. Sir George calls you John, which shows
he is not quite satisfied about you; and, in fact, I begin to suspect
you must have become a United Irishman, with “a lady in the case.” Yet
even this would scarcely demand one half the reserve and caution with
which you are mentioned. Am I indiscreet in saying that I don’t think De
Vere likes you? The Major, however, certainly does; and his presence has
banished the lordling, for which, really, I owe him gratitude.’
The letter concluded by saying that my mother had desired her to write
in her place, as she was suffering from one of her nervous headaches,
which only permitted her to go to the exhibition at Somerset House; my
father, too, was at Woolwich on some military business, and had no time
for anything save to promise to write soon; and that she herself, being
disappointed by the milliner in a new bonnet, dedicated the morning to
me, with a most praiseworthy degree of self-denial and benevolence. I
read the signature some half-dozen times over, and wondered what meaning
in her own heart she ascribed to the words, ‘Yours, Julia.’
‘Now for O’Grady,’ said I, breaking the seal of the Major’s envelope.
‘My dear Jack,--I was sitting on a hencoop, now pondering on my
fortunes, now turning to con over the only book on board--a very erudite
work on naval tactics, with directions how “to moor a ship in the
Downs”--when a gun came booming over the sea, and a frigate with certain
enigmatical colours flying at her main-top compelled the old troop-ship
we were in to back her topsails and lie to. (We were then steering
straight for Madeira, in latitude------, longitude the same--our
intention being, with the aid of Providence, to reach Quebec at some
remote period of the summer, to join our service companies in Canada.)
Having obeyed the orders of H.M.S. _Blast_, to wait until she overtook
us--a measure that nearly cost us two of our masts and the cook’s
galley, we not being accustomed to stand still, it seemed--a boat came
alongside with the smallest bit of a midshipman I ever looked at sitting
in the stern-sheets, with orders for us to face about, left shoulder
forward, and march back to England, where, having taken in the second
battalion of the Twenty-eighth, we were to start for Lisbon.
‘I need not tell you what pleasure the announcement afforded us,
delighted as we were to exchange tomahawks and bowie-knives for
civilised warfare, even against more formidable foes. Behold us then in
full sail back to old England, which we reached within a fortnight--only
to touch, however, for the Twenty-eighth were most impatiently expecting
us; and having dedicated three days to taking in water and additional
stores, and once more going through the horrible scene of leave-taking
between soldiers and their wives, we sailed again. I have little
inclination to give you the detail, which newspapers would beat me
hollow in, of our march, or where we first came up with the French. A
smart affair took place at daybreak, in which your humble servant, to
use the appropriate phrase, “distinguished” himself--egad! I had almost
said “extinguished”; for I was shot through the side, losing part of
that conjugal portion of the human anatomy called a rib, and sustaining
several other minor damages, that made me appear to the regimental
doctor a very unserviceable craft for his Majesty’s service. The result
was, I was sent back with that plaster for a man’s vanity, though not
for his wounds, a despatch-letter to the Horse Guards, and an official
account of the action. As nothing has occurred since in the Peninsula to
eclipse my performance, I continue to star it here with immense success,
and am quite convinced that with a little more loss I might have made an
excellent match out of the affair.
‘Now to the pleasant part of my epistle. Your father found me out a few
evenings since at an evening party at the Duke of York’s, and presented
me to your lady-mother, who was most gracious in her reception of me;
an invitation to dinner the next day followed, and since, I have spent
almost every day at your house. Your father, my dear Jack, is a glorious
fellow, a soldier in every great feature of the character; you never can
have a finer object of your imitation, and your best friend cannot wish
you to be more than his equal. Lady Charlotte is the most fascinating
person I ever met; her abilities are first-rate, and her powers of
pleasing exceed all that ever I fancied even of London fashionables. How
you could have left such a house I can scarcely conceive, knowing as I
do something of your taste for comfort and voluptuous ease. Besides, _la
cousine_, Lady Julia--Jack, Jack, what a close fellow you are I and
how very lovely she is! she certainly has not her equal even here. I
scarcely know her, for somehow she rather affects hauteur with my cloth,
and rarely deigns any notice of the red-coats so plentifully sprinkled
along your father’s dinner-table. Her kindness to Corny, who has been
domesticated at your house for the last five weeks, I can never forget;
and even he can’t, it would appear, conjure up any complaint against
her. What a testimony to her goodness!
‘This life, however, cannot last for ever; and as I have now recovered
so far as to mount a horse once more, I have applied for a regimental
appointment. Your father most kindly interests himself for me, and
before the week is over I may be gazetted. That fellow De Vere was very
intimate here when I arrived; since he has seen me, however, his
visits have become gradually less frequent, and now have almost ceased
altogether. This, _entre nous_, does not seem to have met completely
with Lady Julia’s approval, and I think she may have attributed to me a
circumstance in which certainly I was not an active cause. However happy
I may feel at being instrumental in a breach of intimacy between her and
one so very unworthy of her, even as a common acquaintance, I will ask
you, Jack, when opportunity offers, to put the matter in its true light;
for although I may, in all likelihood, never meet her again, I should
be sorry to leave with her a more unfavourable impression of me than I
really deserve.’
Here the letter broke off; but lower down on the paper were the
following lines, written in evident haste, and with a different ink:--
‘We sail to-night. Oporto is our destination. Corny is to remain behind,
and I must ask of you to look to him on his arrival in Dublin. Lady
Julia likes De Vere, and you know him too well to permit of such a fatal
misfortune. I am, I find, meddling in what really I have no right to
touch upon; this is, however, _de vous à moi_. God bless you.--Yours
ever, Phil o’Grady.’
‘Poor Phil!’ said I, as I laid down the letter; ‘in his heart he
believes himself disinterested in all this, but I see plainly he is in
love with her himself.’ Alas! I cannot conceive a heavier affliction
to befall the man without fortune than to be thrown among those whose
prospects render an alliance impossible, and to bestow his affections on
an object perfectly beyond his reach of attainment. Many a proud heart
has been torn in the struggle between its own promptings and the
dread of the imputation, which the world so hastily confers, of
‘fortune-hunting’; many a haughty spirit has quailed beneath this fear,
and stifled in his bosom the thought that made his life a blessed dream.
My poor friend, how little will she that has stolen away your peace
think of your sorrows!
A gentle tap at my door aroused me from my musings. I opened it, and
saw, to my surprise, my old companion Tipperary Joe. He was covered with
dust, heated, and travel-stained, and leaned against the door-post to
rest himself.
‘So,’ cried he, when he had recovered his breath, ‘I’m in time to see
you once more before you go! I run all the way from Carlow, since twelve
o’clock last night.’
‘Come in, my poor boy, and sit down. Here’s a glass of wine; ‘twill
refresh you. We ‘ll get something for you to eat presently.’
‘No, I couldn’t eat now. My throat is full, and my heart is up here.
And so you are going away--going for good and all, never to come back
again?’
‘Who can say so much as that, Joe? I should, at least, be very sorry to
think so.’
‘And would you, now? And will you really think of ould Ireland when
you ‘re away? Hurroo! by the mortial, there’s no place like it for fun,
divilment, and divarsion. But, musha, musha! I’m forgettin’, and it’s
gettin’ dark. May I go with you to the packet?’
‘To be sure, my poor boy; and I believe we have not many minutes to
spare.’
I despatched Joe for a car while I threw a last look around my room. Sad
things, these last looks, whether bestowed on the living or the dead,
the lifelike or the inanimate! There is a feeling that resembles death
in the last glance we are ever to bestow on a loved object. The girl
you have treasured in your secret heart, as she passes by on her
wedding-day, it may be happy and blissful, lifts up her laughing eyes,
the symbol of her own light heart, and leaves in that look darkness and
desolation to you for ever. The boy your father-spirit has clung
to, like the very light of your existence, waves his hand from the
quarterdeck, as the gigantic ship bends over to the breeze; the wind
is playing through the locks your hand so oftentimes has smoothed;
the tears have dimmed his eyes, for, mark t he moves his fingers over
them--and this is a last look. My sorrow had no touch of these. My eye
ranged over the humble furniture of my little chamber, while memories
of the past came crowding on me--hopes that I had lived to see blighted,
daydreams dissipated, heartfelt wishes thwarted and scattered. I stood
thus for some minutes, when Joe again joined me.
Poor fellow! his wayward and capricious flights, now grave, now gay,
were but the mockery of that sympathy my heart required. Still did he
heal the sadness of the moment. We need the voice, the look, the accent
of affection when we are leaving the spot where we have once been happy.
It will not do to part from the objects that have made our home, without
the connecting link of human friendship. The hearth, the roof-tree,
the mountain, and the rivulet are not so eloquent as the once syllabled
‘Good-bye,’ come it from ever so humble a voice.
[Illustration: 3-055]
The bustle and excitement of the scene beside the packet seemed to
afford Joe the most lively gratification; and, like the genius of
confusion, he was to be seen flitting from place to place, assisting
one, impeding another, while snatches of his wild songs broke from him
every moment. I had but time to press his hand, when he was hurried
ashore amongst the crowd; and the instant after the vessel sheered off
from the pier, and got under way. The poor boy stood upon a block of
granite, waving his cap over his head. He tried a faint cheer, but it
was scarcely audible; another, it too failed. He looked wildly around
him on the strange, unknown faces, as if a scene of desolation had
fallen on him, burst into a torrent of tears, and fled wildly from the
spot. And thus I took my leave of Ireland.
At this period of my narrative I owe it to my reader--I owe it to
myself--to apologise for the mention of incidents, places, and people
that have no other bearing on my story than in the impression they
made upon me while yet young. When I arrived in Ireland I knew scarcely
anything of the world. My opportunities had shown me life only through
the coloured gloss of certain fashionable prejudices; but of the real
character, motives, and habitual modes of acting and thinking of others,
still more of myself, I was in total ignorance. The rapidly succeeding
incidents of Irish life--their interest, variety, and novelty--all
attracted and excited me; and without ever stopping to reflect upon
causes, I found myself becoming acquainted with facts. That the
changeful pictures of existence so profusely scattered through the land
should have made their impression upon me is natural enough; and because
I have found it easier and pleasanter to tell my reader the machinery of
this change in me than to embody that change itself, is the reason why
I have presented before him tableaux of life under so many different
circumstances, and when, frequently, they had no direct relation to the
current of my own fate and the story of my own fortunes. It is enough
of myself to say, that, though scarcely older in time, I had grown so
in thought and feeling. If I felt, on the one hand, how little my
high connections and the position in fashionable life which my family
occupied availed me, I learned, on the other, to know that friends,
and stanch ones, could be made at once, on the emergency of a moment,
without the imposing ceremony of introduction and the diplomatic
interchange of visits. And now to my story.
CHAPTER XLVII. LONDON
It was late when I arrived in London and drove up to my father’s house.
The circumstances under which I had left Ireland weighed more heavily on
me as I drew near home, and as I reflected over the questions I should
be asked and the explanations I should be expected to afford; and I half
dreaded lest my father should disapprove of my conduct before I had an
opportunity of showing him how little I had been to blame throughout.
The noise and din of the carriages, the oaths and exclamations of the
coachmen, and the uproar of the streets turned my attention from these
thoughts, and I asked what was the meaning of the crowd.
‘A great ball, sir, at Lady Charlotte Hinton’s.’
This was a surprise, and not of the pleasantest. I had wished that my
first meeting with my father at least should have been alone and in
quietness, where I could fairly have told him every important event of
my late life, and explained wherefore I so ardently desired immediate
employment on active service and a total change in that career which
weighed so heavily on my spirits. The carriage drew up at the instant,
and I found myself once more at home.
What a feeling does that simple word convey to his ears who knows the
real blessing of a home--that shelter from the world, its jealousies
and its envies, its turmoils and its disappointments; where, like some
landlocked bay, the still, calm waters sleep in silence, while the storm
and hurricane are roaring without; where glad faces and bright looks
abound; where each happiness is reflected back from every heart and ten
times multiplied, and every sorrow comes softened by consolation and
words of comfort! And how little like this is the abode of the great
leader of fashion; how many of the fairest gifts of humanity are turned
back by the glare of a hundred wax-lights, and the glitter of gilded
lackeys; and how few of the charities of life find entrance where the
splendour and luxury of voluptuous habits have stifled natural feeling,
and made even sympathy unfashionable!
It was not without difficulty I could persuade the servants, who were
all strangers to me, that the travel-stained, dusty individual before
them was the son of the celebrated and fashionable Lady Charlotte
Hinton, and at length reach my room to dress.
It was near midnight. The rooms were filled as I entered the
drawing-room. For a few moments I could not help feeling strongly the
full influence of the splendid scene before me. The undoubted evidences
of rank and wealth that meet the eye on every side in London life are
very striking. The splendour of the women’s dress, their own beauty, a
certain air of haughty bearing peculiarly English, a kind of conscious
superiority to the rest of the world mark them; and in their easy,
unembarrassed, steady glance you read the proud spirit of Albion’s
‘haughty dames.’ This alone was very different from the laughing spirit
of Erin’s daughters, their _espiègle_ looks and smiling lips. The men,
too, were so dissimilar--their reserved and stately carriage, their low
voices, and deferential but composed manner contrasting strongly with
Irish volubility, quickness, and gesticulation. I stood unnoticed and
alone for some time, quietly observant of the scene before me; and as
I heard name after name announced, many of them the greatest and the
highest in the land, there was no semblance of excitement as they
entered, no looks of admiring wonder as they passed on and mingled
with the crowd. This showed me I was in a mighty city, where the chief
spirits that ruled the age moved daily before the public eye; and again
I thought of Dublin, where some third-rate notoriety would have been
hailed with almost acclamation, and lionised to the ‘top of his bent.’
I could remember but few of those around, and even they had either
forgotten me altogether, or, having no recollection of my absence,
saluted me with the easy nonchalance of one who is seen every evening of
his life.
‘How are you, Hinton?’ said one, with something more of warmth than the
rest. ‘I have not met you for some weeks past.’
‘No,’ said I, smiling. ‘I have been nearly a year from home.’
‘Ah, indeed! In Spain?’
‘No, in Ireland.’
‘In Ireland? How odd!’
‘Who has been in Ireland?’ said a low, plaintive voice. Turning round
as she spoke, my lady-mother stood before me. ‘I should like to hear
something---- But, dear me, this must be John!’ and she held out her
jewelled hand towards me.
‘My dear mother, I am so happy to see you look so very well----’
‘No, no, my dear,’ said she, sighing, ‘don’t speak of that. When did
you arrive? I beg your Royal Highness’s pardon, I hope you have not
forgotten your protege, my son.’
I bowed reverently as a large, full, handsome man, with bald head and a
most commanding expression, drew himself up before me.
‘No, madam, I have not forgotten him, I assure you!’ was the reply, as
he returned my salute with marked coldness, and passed on.
Before Lady Charlotte could express her surprise at such an unlooked-for
mark of displeasure, my father, who had just heard of my arrival, came
up.
‘Jack, my dear fellow, I am glad to see you. How large you have grown,
boy, and how brown!’
The warm welcome of his manly voice, the affectionate grasp of his
strong hand, rallied me at once, and I cared little for the looks of
king or kaiser at that moment. He drew his arm within mine, and led me
through the rooms to a small boudoir, where a party at cards were the
only occupants.
‘Here we shall be tolerably alone for a little while, at least,’ said
he; ‘and now, my lad, tell me everything about you.*
In less than half an hour I ran over the principal events of my life in
Ireland, omitting only those in which Miss Bellew bore a part. On this
account my rupture with Lord de Vere was only imperfectly alluded to;
and I could perceive that my father’s brow became contracted, and his
look assumed a severer expression at this part of my narrative.
‘You have not been very explicit, Jack, about this business; and this it
is which I am really uneasy about. I have never known you do a mean or
a shabby thing; I will never suspect you of one. So, now, let me clearly
understand the ground of this quarrel.’
There was a tone of command in his voice as he said this which decided
me at once, and without further hesitation I resolved on laying
everything before him. Still, I knew not how to begin; the mention of
Louisa’s name alone staggered me, and for a second or two I stammered
and looked confused.
Unlike his wonted manner, my father looked impatient, almost angry. At
last, when seeing that my agitation only increased upon me, and that my
difficulty grew each moment greater, he looked me sternly in the face,
and with a voice full of meaning, said--
‘Tell me everything! I cannot bear to doubt you. Was this a play
transaction?’
‘A play transaction! No, sir, nothing like it.’
‘Was there not a bet--some disputed wager---mixed up in it?’
‘Yes, there was a wager, sir; but----’
Before I could conclude, my father pressed his hand against his eyes,
and a faint sigh broke from him.
‘But hear me out, sir. The wager was none of mine.’ In a few moments I
ran over the whole circumstances of De Vere’s bet, his conduct to Miss
Bellew, and my own subsequent proceedings; but when I came to the
mention of O’Grady’s name, he stopped me suddenly, and said--
‘Major O’Grady, however, did not approve of your conduct in the affair.’
‘O’Grady! He was my friend all through it!’
My father remained silent for a few minutes, and then in a low voice
added--
‘There has been misrepresentation here.’
The words were not well spoken when Lord Dudley de Vere, with my cousin
Lady Julia on his arm, came up. The easy nonchalance of his manner, the
tone of quiet indifference he assumed, were well known to me; but I
was in nowise prepared for the look of insufferable, patronising
impertinence he had now put on.
My cousin, more beautiful far than ever I had seen her, took off my
attention from him, however, and I turned with a feeling of half pride,
half wonder, to pay my respects to her. Dressed in the most perfect
taste of the fashion, her handsome features wore the assured and
tranquil expression which conscious beauty gives. And here let no
inexperienced observer rashly condemn the placid loveliness of the queen
of beauty, the sanctioned belle of fashionable life. It is, indeed,
very different from the artless loveliness of innocent girlhood; but its
claim is not less incontestable. The features, like the faculties, can
be cultivated; and when no unnatural effort suggests the expression, who
shall say that the mind habitually exercised in society of the highest
and most gifted circle will not impart a more elevated character to the
look than when the unobtrusive career of everyday life flows on calm and
unruffled, steeping the soul in a dreary monotony, and calling for no
effort save of the commonest kind.
Julia’s was indeed splendid beauty. The lustrous brilliancy of her
dark-blue eyes was shaded by long, black lashes; the contour of her
cheeks was perfect; her full short lips were slightly, so slightly
curled, you knew not if it were no more smile than sarcasm; the low
tones of her voice were rich and musical, and her carriage and demeanour
possessed all the graceful elegance which is only met with in the
society of great cities. Her manner was most frank and cordial; she held
out her hand to me at once, and looked really glad to see me. After a
few brief words of recognition, she turned towards De Vere--
‘I shall ask you to excuse me, my lord, this set. It is so long since I
have seen my cousin.’
He bowed negligently, muttered something carelessly about the next
waltz, and with a familiar nod to me, lounged away. O’Grady’s caution
about this man’s attentions to Julia at once came to my mind, and the
easy tone of his manner towards her alarmed me; but I had no time for
reflection, as she took my arm and sauntered down the room.
‘And so, _mon cher_ cousin, you have been leading a very wild life of
it--fighting duels, riding steeplechases, breaking your own bones and
ladies’ hearts, in a manner exceedingly Irish?’ said Julia with a smile,
into which not a particle of her habitual raillery entered.
‘From your letters I can learn, Julia, that a very strange account of my
doings must have reached my friends here. Except from yourself, I have
met with scarcely anything but cold looks since my arrival.’
‘Oh, never mind that; people will talk, you know. For my part, Jack, I
never will believe you anything but what I have always known you. The
heaviest charge I have heard against you is that of trifling with a
poor girl’s affections; and as I know that the people who spread these
rumours generally don’t know at which side either the trifling or the
affection resides, why, I think little about it.’
‘And has this been said of me?’
‘To be sure it has, and ten times as much. As to your gambling sins,
there is no end to their enormity. A certain Mr. Rooney, I think the
name is, a noted play-man----’
‘How absurd, Julia! Mr. Rooney never played in his life; nor have I,
except in the casual way every one does in a drawing-room.’
_‘N’importe_--you are a lady-killer and a gambler. Now as to count
number three--for being a jockey.’
‘My dear Julia, if you had seen my steeplechase you ‘d acquit me of
that.’
‘Indeed, I did hear,’ said she roguishly, ‘that you acquitted
yourself admirably; but still you won. And then we come to the great
offence--your quarrelsome habits. We heard, it is true, that you
behaved, as it is called, very honourably, etc; but really duelling is
so detestable----’
‘Come, come, fair cousin, let us talk of something besides my
delinquencies. What do you think of my friend O’Grady?’
I said this suddenly, by way of reprisal; but to my utter discomfiture
she replied with perfect calmness--
‘I rather was amused with him at first. He is very odd, very unlike
other people; but Lady Charlotte took him up so, and we had so much of
him here, I grew somewhat tired of him. He was, however, very fond of
you; and you know that made up for much with us all.’
There was a tone of sweetness and almost of deep interest in these last
few words that made my heart thrill, and unconsciously I pressed her arm
closer to my side, and felt the touch returned. Just at the instant my
father came forward accompanied by another, who I soon perceived was
the royal duke that had received me so coldly a few minutes before. His
frank, manly face was now all smiles, and his bright eye glanced from my
fair cousin to myself with a quick, meaning expression.
‘Another time, General, will do quite as well, I say, Mr. Hinton, call
on me to-morrow morning about ten, will you? I have something to say to
you.’
I bowed deeply in reply, and he passed on.
‘And let me see you after breakfast,’ said Julia, in a half-whisper, as
she turned towards De Vere, who now came forward to claim her for the
waltz.
My father, too, mixed with the crowd, and I felt myself alone and a
stranger in what should have been my home. A kind of cold thrill came
over me as I thought how unlike was my welcome to what it would have
been in Ireland; for although I felt that in my father’s manner towards
me there was no want of affection or kindness, yet somehow I missed the
exuberant warmth and ready cordiality I had latterly been used to, and
soon turned away, sad and disappointed, to seek my own room.
CHAPTER XLVIII. AN UNHAPPY DISCLOSURE
‘What!’ cried I, as I awoke the next morning, and looked with amazement
at the figure which waddled across the room with a hoot in either
hand--‘what! not Corny Delany, surely?’
‘Ugh! that same,’ said he, with a cranky croak. ‘I don’t wonder ye don’t
know me; hardship’s telling on me every day.’
Now really, in vindication of my father’s household, in which Sir Corny
had been domesticated for the last two months, I must observe that the
alteration in his appearance was not exactly such as to justify his
remark; on the contrary, he had grown fatter and more ruddy, and looked
in far better case than I had ever seen him. His face, however, most
perseveringly preserved its habitual sour and crabbed expression, rather
increased, than otherwise, by his improved condition.
‘So, Corny, you are not comfortable here, I find?’
‘Comfortable! The ways of this place would kill the Danes! Nothing but
ringing bells from morning till night; carriages drivin’ like wind up
to the door, and bang, bang away at the rapper; then more ringing to let
them out again; and bells for breakfast and for luncheon and the hall
dinner; and then the sight of vitals that’s wasted--meat and fish and
fowl and vegetables without end. Ugh! the Haythins, the Turks! eating
and drinking as if the world was all their own.’
‘Well, apparently they take good care of you in that respect’
‘Devil a bit of care; here it’s every man for himself. But I’ll give
warning on Saturday; sorrow one o’ me ‘ll be kilt for the like of them.’
‘You prefer Ireland, then, Corny?’
‘Who said I did?’ said he snappishly; ‘isn’t it as bad there? Ugh,
ugh! the Captain won’t rest aisy in his grave after the way he
treated me--leaving me here alone and dissolate in this place, amongst
strangers!’
‘Well, you must confess the country is not so bad.’
‘And why would I confess it? What’s in it that I don’t mislike? Is it
the heap of houses and the smoke and the devil’s noise that’s always
going on that I’d like? Why isn’t it peaceful and quiet like Dublin?’
And as I conversed further with him, I found that all his dislikes
proceeded from the discrepancy he everywhere discovered from what he
had been accustomed to in Ireland, and which, without liking, he still
preferred to our Saxon observances--the few things he saw worthy of
praise being borrowed or stolen from his own side of the Channel And in
this his ingenuity was striking, insomuch that the very trees in Woburn
Park owed their goodness to the owner having been once a Lord Lieutenant
in Ireland, where, as Corny expressed it, ‘devil thank him to have fine
trees! hadn’t he the pick of the Fhaynix?’
I knew that candour formed a most prominent feature in Mr. Delany’s
character, and consequently had little difficulty in ascertaining his
opinion of every member of my family; indeed, to do him justice, no one
ever required less of what is called pumping. His judgment on things and
people flowed from him without effort or restraint, so that ere half
an hour elapsed he had expatiated on my mothers pride and vanity,
apostrophised my father’s hastiness and determination, and was quite
prepared to enter upon a critical examination of my cousin Julia’s
failings, concerning whom, to my astonishment, he was not half so
lenient as I expected.
‘Arrah, isn’t she like the rest of them, coorting one day with Captain
Phil, and another with the young lord there, and then laughing at them
both with the ould duke that comes here to dinner! She thinks I don’t
be minding her; but didn’t I see her taking myself off one day on
paper--making a drawing of me, as if I was a haste! Mayhe there’s worse
nor me,’ said the little man, looking down upon his crooked shins and
large knee-joints with singular complacency; ‘and mayhe she’d get one
of them yet.’ À harsh cackle, the substitute for a laugh, closed this
speech.
‘Breakfast on the table, sir,’ said a servant, tapping gently at the
door.
‘I’ll engage it is, and will be till two o’clock, when they’ll be
calling out for luncheon,’ said Corny, turning up the whites of his
eyes, as though the profligate waste of the house was a sin he wished to
wash his hands of. ‘That wasn’t the way at his honour the Jidge’s; he’d
never taste a bit from morning till night; and many a man he ‘d send to
his long account in the meantime. Ugh! I wish I was back there.’
‘I have spent many happy days in Ireland, too,’ said I, scarce following
him in more than the general meaning of his speech.
A fit of coughing from Corny interrupted his reply, but as he left the
room I could hear his muttered meditations, something in this strain:
‘Happy days, indeed! A dacent life you led! tramping about the country
with a fool, horse-riding and fighting! Ugh!’
I found my cousin in the breakfast-room alone; my father had already
gone out; and as Lady Charlotte never left her room before three or
four o’clock, I willingly took the opportunity of our _tête-à-tête_ to
inquire into the cause of the singular reception I had met with, and to
seek an explanation, if so might be, of the viceroy’s change towards me
since his visit to England.
Julia entered frankly and freely into the whole matter, with the details
of which, though evidently not trusting me to the full, she was somehow
perfectly conversant.
‘My dear John,’ said she, ‘your whole conduct in Ireland has been much
mistaken----’
‘Calumniated, apparently, were the better word, Julia,’ said I hastily.
‘Nay, hear me out. It is so easy, when people have no peculiar reasons
to vindicate another, to misconstrue, perhaps condemn. It is so much the
way of the world to look at things in their worst light, that I am sure
you will see no particular ingenuity was required to make your career
in Dublin appear a wild one, and your life in the country still more so.
Now you are growing impatient; you are getting angry; so I shall stop.’
‘No, no, Julia; a thousand pardons if a passing shade of indignation did
show itself in my face. Pray go on.’
‘Well then, when a young gentleman, whose exclusive leanings were even a
little quizzed here--there, no impatience!--condescends at one spring
to frequent third-rate people’s houses; falls in love with a niece, or
daughter, or a something there; plays high among riotous associates;
makes rash wagers; and fights with his friends, who endeavour to rescue
him----’
‘Thank you, Julia--a thousand thanks, sweet cousin! The whole narrative
and its author are palpably before me.’
A deep blush covered her cheek as I rose hastily from my chair.
‘John, dear John, sit down again,’ said she, ‘I have only been in jest
all this time. You surely do not suppose me silly enough to credit one
word of all this?’
‘It must have been told you, however,’ said I, fixing my eyes on her as
I spoke.
The redness of her cheek grew deeper, and her confusion increased to
a painful extent, as, taking my hand in hers, she said in a low, soft
voice--
‘I have been very, very foolish; but you will promise me never to
remember--at least never to act upon--the----’
The words became fainter and fainter as she spoke, and at last died
away inaudibly; and suddenly there shot across my mind the passage in
O’Grady’s letter. The doubt once suggested, gained strength at every
moment: she loved De Vere. I will not attempt to convey the conflicting
storm of passion this thought stirred up within me.
I turned towards her. Her head was thrown gently back, and her deep-blue
lustrous eyes were fixed on me as if waiting my reply. A tear rolled
heavily along her cheek; it was the first I ever saw her shed. Pressing
her hand to my lips, I muttered the words, ‘Trust me, Julia,’ and left
the room. ‘Sir George wishes to see you, sir, in his own room,’ said a
servant, as I stood stunned and overcome by the discovery I had made of
my cousin’s affection. I had no time given me for further reflection as
I followed the man to my father’s room.
‘Sit down, Jack,’ said my father, as he turned the key in the door. ‘I
wish to talk to you alone here. I have been with the duke this morning;
a little explanation has satisfied him that your conduct was perfectly
irreproachable in Ireland. He writes by this post to the viceroy to
make the whole thing clear, and indeed he offered to reinstate you at
once--which I refused, however. Now to something graver still, my boy,
and which I wish I could spare you; but it cannot be.’
As he spoke these words he leaned his head in both his hands, and was
silent. A confused, imperfect sense of some impending bad news almost
stupefied me, and I waited without speaking. When my father lifted up
his head his face was pale and care-worn, and an expression such as
long illness leaves had usurped the strong and manly character of his
countenance.
‘Come, my boy, I must not keep you longer in suspense. Fortune has dealt
hardly with me since we parted. Jack, I am a beggar!’
A convulsive gulp and a rattling sound in the throat followed the words,
and for a second or two his fixed looks and purple colour made me fear a
fit was approaching. But in a few minutes he recovered his calmness,
and proceeded, still with a broken and tremulous voice, to relate the
circumstances of his altered fortune.
It appeared that many British officers of high rank had involved
themselves deeply in a loan to the Spanish Government, under the faith
of speedy repayment. The varying chances of the Peninsular struggle had
given this loan all the character of a gambling speculation, the skill
in which consisted in the anticipation of the result of the war we were
then engaged in. My father’s sanguine hopes of ultimate success induced
him to enter deeply into the speculation, from which, having once
engaged, there was no retreat. Thousand after thousand followed, to
secure the sum already advanced; and at last, hard pressed by the
increasing demands for money, and confident that the first turn of
fortune would lead to repayment, he had made use of the greater part
of my cousin Julia’s fortune, whose guardian he was, and in whose hands
this trust-money had been left My cousin would come of age in about four
months, at which time she would be eighteen; and then, if the money were
not forthcoming, the consequences were utter ruin, with the terrific
blow of blasted character and reputation.
There was a sum of ten thousand pounds settled on me by my grandfather,
which I at once offered to place at his disposal.
‘Alas, my poor fellow! I have advanced already upwards of thirty
thousand of Julia’s fortune! No, no, Jack, I have thought much over
the matter; there is but one way of escaping from this difficulty. By
disposing of these bonds at considerable loss, I shall be enabled to pay
Julia’s money. This will leave us little better than above actual want;
still, it must be done. I shall solicit a command abroad; they’ll not
refuse me, I know. Lady Charlotte must retire to Bath, or some quiet
place, which in my absence will appear less remarkable. Strict economy
and time will do much. And as to yourself, I know that having once
learned what you have to look to I shall have no cause of complaint on
your score; the duke has promised to take care of you. And now my heart
is lighter than it has been for some months past.’
Before my father had ceased speaking the shock of his news had gradually
subsided with me, and I was fully intent on the details by which he
hoped to escape his embarrassments. My mother was my first thought. Lady
Charlotte, I knew, could never encounter her changed condition; she was
certain to sink under the very shock of it. My father, however, supposed
that she need not be told its full extent; that, by management, the
circumstances should be gradually made known to her; and he hoped, too,
that her interest in her husband and son, both absent from her, would
withdraw her thoughts in great measure from the routine of fashionable
life, and fix them in a channel more homely and domestic.
‘Besides,’ added he, with more animation of voice, ‘they may offer me
some military appointment in the colonies, where she could accompany
me; and this will prevent an exposure. And, after all, Jack, there is
nothing else for it.’ As he said this he fixed his eyes on me, as though
rather asking than answering the question.
Not knowing what to reply, I was silent.
‘You were fond of Julia, as a boy,’ said he carelessly.
The blood rushed to my cheek, as I answered, ‘Yes, sir; but--but----’
‘But you have outgrown that?’ added he, with a smile.
‘Not so much, sir, as that she has forgotten me. In fact, I believe we
are excellent cousins.’
‘And it is not now, my dear boy, I would endeavour to make you more to
each other. What is not a union of inclination shall never be one
of sordid interest. Besides, Jack, why should we not take the field
together? The very thought of it makes me feel young enough!’
I saw his lip quiver as he spoke; and unable to bear more, I wrung his
hand warmly, and hurried away.
CHAPTER XLIX. THE HORSE GUARDS
I will not say that my reverse of fortune did not depress me; indeed,
the first blow fell heavily; but that once past, a number of opposing
motives rallied my courage and nerved my heart. My father, I knew,
relied on me in this crisis to support his own strength. I had learned
to care less for extravagant habits and expensive tastes, by living
among those who accorded them little sympathy and less respect. Besides,
if my changed career excluded me from the race of fashion, it opened the
brilliant path of a soldier’s life before me; and now every hour seemed
an age, until I should find myself among the gallant fellows who were
winning their laurels in the battlefields of the Peninsula.
According to the duke’s appointment of the preceding evening I found
myself, at ten o’clock punctually, awaiting my turn to be introduced, in
the ante-chamber of the Horse Guards. The room was crowded with officers
in full dress. Some old white-haired generals of division had been
coming daily for years past to solicit commands, their fitness for which
lay only in their own doting imaginations; some, broken by sickness
and crippled with wounds, were seeking colonial appointments they never
could live to reach; hale and stout men in the prime of life were there
also, entreating exchanges which should accommodate their wives and
daughters, who preferred Bath or Cheltenham to the banks of the Tagus
or the snows of Canada. Among these, however, were many fine soldierlike
fellows, whose only request was to be sent where hard knocks were going,
careless of the climate and regardless of the cause. Another class
were thinly sprinkled around--young officers of the staff, many of them
delicate, effeminate-looking figures, herding scrupulously together,
and never condescending, by word or look, to acknowledge their brethren
about them. In this knot De Vere was conspicuous by the loud tone of his
voice and the continued titter of his unmeaning laugh. I have already
mentioned the consummate ease with which he could apparently forget all
unpleasant recollections, and accost the man whom he should have blushed
to meet. Now he exhibited this power in perfection; saluting me across
the room with a familiar motion of his hand, he called out--
‘Ah, Hinton, you here, too? Sick of Ireland; I knew it would come to
that. Looking for something near town?’
A cold negative, and a colder bow, was my only answer.
Nothing abashed by this--indeed, to all seeming, quite indifferent to
it» he continued--
‘Bad style of thing, Dublin; couldn’t stand those con-founded talkers,
with their old jokes from circuit. _You_ were horribly bored, too; I saw
it.’
‘I beg, my lord,’ said I, in a tone of seriousness, the best exchange
I could assume for the deep annoyance I felt--‘I beg that you will
not include me in your opinions respecting Ireland; I opine we differ
materially in our impressions on that country, and perhaps not without
reason too. These latter words I spoke with marked emphasis, and fixing
my eyes steadily on him.
‘Very possibly,’ lisped he, as coolly as before. ‘I left it without
regret; you apparently ought to be there still! Ha, ha, ha! he has it
there, I think.’
The blood mounted to my face and temples as I heard these words, and
stepping close up beside him, I said slowly and distinctly--
‘I thought, sir, that one lesson might have taught you with whom these
liberties were practicable.’
As I said thus much the door opened, and his grace the Duke of York
appeared. Abashed at having so far forgotten where I was, I stood
motionless and crimson for shame. Lord Dudley, on the contrary, bowed
reverently to his Royal Highness, without the slightest evidence of
discomposure or irritation, his easy smile curling his lip.
The duke turned from one to the other of us without speaking, his dark
eyes piercing, as it were, into our very hearts. ‘Lord Dudley de Vere,’
said he at length, ‘I have signed your appointment. Mr. Hinton, I am
sorry to find that the voice I have heard more than once within the last
five minutes, in an angry tone, was yours. Take care, sir, that this
forgetfulness does not grow upon you. The colonel of the Twenty-seventh
is not the person to overlook it, I promise you.’
‘If your Royal Highness----’
‘I must entreat you to spare me any explanations. You are gazetted
to the Twenty-seventh. I hope you will hold yourself in readiness for
immediate embarkation. Where’s the detachment, Sir Howard?’
‘At Chatham, your Royal Highness,’ replied an old officer behind the
duke’s shoulder. At the same moment his grace passed through the room,
conversing as he went with different persons about him.
As I turned away, I met Lord Dudley’s eyes. They were riveted on me with
an expression of triumphant malice I had never seen in them before, and
I hurried homeward with a heart crushed and wounded.
I have but one reason for the mention of this trivial incident. It is to
show how often the studied courtesy, the well-practised deception,
that the fashion of the world teaches, will prevail over the heartfelt,
honest indignation which deep feeling evinces; and what a vast
superiority the very affectation of temper confers, in the judgment of
others who stand by the game of life and care nothing for the players at
either side. Let no one suspect me of lauding the mockery of virtue in
what I say here. I would merely impress on the young man who can feel
for the deep sorrow and abasement I suffered the importance of the
attainment of that self-command, of that restraint over any outbreak of
passion, when the very semblance of it insures respect and admiration.
It is very difficult to witness with indifference the preference of
those we have once loved for some other person; still more so, when that
other chances to be one we dislike. The breach of affection seems then
tinctured with a kind of betrayal; we call to mind how once we swayed
the temper and ruled the thoughts of her who now has thrown off her
allegiance; we feel, perhaps for the first time too, how forgotten are
all our lessons, how dead is all our wonted influence; we remember when
the least word, the slightest action, bent beneath our will; when our
smile was happiness and our very sadness a reproof; and now we see
ourselves unminded and neglected, and no more liberty to advise, no more
power to control, than the merest stranger of the passing hour. What a
wound to our self-love!
That my cousin Julia loved De Vere, O’Grady’s suspicions had already
warned me; the little I had seen of her since my return strengthened
the impression, while his confident manner and assured tone confirmed
my worst fears. In my heart I knew how utterly unworthy he was of such a
girl; but then, if he had already won her affections, my knowledge came
too late. Besides, the changed circumstances of my own fortune, which
must soon become known, would render my interference suspicious, and
consequently of no value; and, after all, if I determined on such a
course, what allegation could I bring against him which he could not
explain away as the mere levity of the young officer associating among
those he looked down upon and despised?
Such were some of my reflections as I slowly returned homewards from
the Horse Guards. As I arrived, a travelling-carriage stood at the door;
boxes, imperials, and cap-cases littered the hall and steps; servants
were hurrying back and forward, and Mademoiselle Clémence, my mother’s
maid, with a poodle under one arm and a macaw’s cage in the other, was
adding to the confusion by directions in a composite language that would
have astonished Babel itself.
‘What means all this?’ said I. ‘Is Lady Charlotte leaving town?’
‘Miladi va partir----’
‘Her ladyship’s going to Hastings, sir,’ said the butler, interrupting.
‘Dr. T-----has been here this morning and recommends an immediate change
of air for her ladyship.’
‘Is Sir George in the house?’
‘No, sir, he’s just gone out with the doctor.’
Ah, thought I, this then is a concerted measure to induce my mother to
leave town. ‘Is Lady Julia at home?’
‘Yes, sir, in the drawing-room.’
‘Whose horse is that with the groom?’ ‘Lord Dudley de Vere’s, sir; he’s
upstairs.’ Already had I turned to go to the drawing-room, when I heard
these words. Suddenly, a faint, half-sick feeling came over me, and I
hastened upstairs to my own room, actually dreading to meet any one as
I went. The blank future before me never seemed so cheerless as at that
moment--separated, without a chance of ever meeting, from the only one I
ever really loved; tortured by my doubts of her feeling for me (for
even now what would I not have given to know she loved me!) my worldly
prospects ruined; without a home; my cousin Julia, the only one who
retained either an interest in me or seemed to care for me, about to
give her hand to the man I hated and despised. ‘How soon, and I shall
be alone in the world!’ thought I; and already the cold selfishness of
isolation presented itself to my mind.
A gentle tap came to the door. I opened it; it was a message from Lady
Charlotte, requesting to see me in her room. As I passed the door of the
drawing-room I heard Lady Julia and Lord de Vere talking and laughing
together. He was, as usual, ‘so amusing,’ as my mother’s letter called
him--doubtless, relating my hasty and intemperate conduct at the Horse
Guards. For an instant I stopped irresolute as to whether I should not
break suddenly in, and disconcert his lordship’s practical coolness by
a disclosure: my better reason prevented me, and I passed on. Lady
Charlotte was seated in a deep arm-chair, inspecting the packing of
various articles of toilette and jewelry which were going on around her,
her cheek somewhat flushed from even this small excitement.
‘Ah, dearest John, how d’ye do? Find a chair somewhere, and sit down by
me; you see what confusion we ‘re in. Dr. Y---- found there was not
an hour to spare; the heart he suspects to be sympathetically
engaged--don’t put that Chantilly veil there, I shall never get at
it--and he advises Hastings for the present. He’s coming with us,
however--I’ll wear that ring, Clémence--and I must insist at his looking
at you. You are very pale to-day, and dark under the eyes; have you any
pain in the side?’
‘None whatever, my dear mother; I’m quite well.’
‘Pain is, however, a late symptom; my attack began with an--a sense
of--it was rather---- Has Bundal not sent back that bracelet? How very
provoking! Could you call there, dear John?--that tiresome man never
minds the servants--it’s just on your way to the club, or the Horse
Guards, or somewhere.’
I could scarce help a smile, as I promised not to forget the commission.
‘And now, my dear, how did his grace receive you? You saw him this
morning?’
‘My interview was quite satisfactory on the main point. I am appointed
to the Twenty-seventh.’
‘Why not on the staff, dear John? You surely don’t mean to leave
England! Having been abroad already--in Ireland I mean--it’s very hard
to expect you to go so soon again. Lady Jane Colthurst’s son has never
been farther from her than Knightsbridge; and I’m sure I don’t see why
we are to be treated worse than she is.’
‘But my own wish----’
‘Your own wish, my dear, could never be to give me uneasiness, which I
assure you you did very considerably while in Ireland. The horrid people
you made acquaintance with--my health, I’m certain, could never sustain
a repetition of the shock I experienced then.’
My mother leaned back and closed her eyes, as if some very dreadful
circumstance was passing across her memory; and I, half ashamed of the
position to which she would condemn me, was silent.
‘There, that aigrette will do very well there, I’m sure. I don’t know
why you are putting in all these things; I shall never want them again,
in all likelihood.’
The depressed tone in which these words were spoken did not affect me
much; for I knew well, from long habit, how my mother loved to dwell
on the possibility of that event, the bare suggestion of which, from
another, she couldn’t have endured.
Just at this moment Julia entered in her travelling dress, a shawl
thrown negligently across her shoulders.
‘I hope I have not delayed you. John, are we to have your company too?’
‘No, my dear,’ said my mother languidly, ‘he’s going to leave us. Some
foolish notion of active service----’
‘Indeed!’ said Julia, not waiting for the conclusion of the
speech--‘indeed!’ She drew near me, and as she did so her colour became
heightened, and her dark eyes grew darker and more meaning. ‘You never
told me this!’
‘I only knew it about an hour ago myself,’ replied I coolly; ‘and when I
was about to communicate my news to you I found you were engaged with a
visitor--Lord de Vere, I think.’
‘Ah, yes, very true; he was here,’ she said quickly; and then perceiving
that my eyes were fixed upon her, she turned her head hastily, and in
evident confusion.
‘Dear me, is it so late?’ said my mother with a sigh. ‘I have some calls
to make yet. Don’t you think, John, you could take them off my hands?
It’s only to drop a card at Lady Blair’s; and you could ask if Caroline
‘s better--though, poor thing, she can’t be, of course; Dr. Y---- says
her malady is exactly my own. And then if you are passing Long’s, tell
Sir Charles that our whist-party is put off--perhaps Grammont has told
him already. You may mention to Saunders that I shall not want the
horses till I return; and say I detest greys, they are so like city
people’s equipages; and wait an instant’--here her ladyship took a small
ivory memorandum tablet from the table, and began reading from it a list
of commissions, some of them most ludicrously absurd. In the midst of
the catalogue my father entered hastily with his watch in his hand.
‘You’ll be dreadfully late on the road, Charlotte; and you forget Y----
must be back here early to-morrow.’
‘So I had forgotten it,’ said she with some animation; ‘but we’re quite
ready now. Clémence has done everything, I think. Come, John, give me
your arm, my dear: Julia always takes this side. Are you certain it
won’t rain, Sir George?’
‘I really cannot be positive,’ said my father, smiling.
‘I’m sure there’s thunder in the air,’ rejoined my mother; ‘my nerves
would never bear a storm.’
Some dreadful catastrophe in the West Indies, where an earthquake had
swallowed up a whole population, occurred to her memory at the instant,
and the possibility of something similar occurring between Seven Oaks
and Tunbridge seemed to engross her entire attention. By this time we
reached the hall, where the servants, drawn up in double file, stood
in respectful silence. My mother’s eyes were, however, directed upon
a figure which occupied the place next the door, and whose costume
certainly was strangely at variance with the accurate liveries about
him. An old white greatcoat with some twenty capes reaching nearly to
the ground (for the garment had been originally destined for a much
larger person), a glazed hat fastened down with a handkerchief passed
over it and tied under the chin, and a black-thorn stick with a little
bundle at the end of it were his most remarkable equipments.
‘What is it? What can it be doing there?’ said my mother, in a Siddons
tone of voice.
[Illustration: 3-081]
‘What is it? Corny Delany, no less,’ croaked out the little man in the
crankiest tone of his harsh voice. ‘It’s what remains of me, at laste!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Julia, bursting into a laugh, ‘Corny’s coming as my
bodyguard. He’ll sit in the rumble with Thomas.’
‘What a shocking figure it is!’ said my mother, surveying him through
her glass.
‘Time doesn’t improve either of us,’ said Corny, with the grin of a
demon. Happily the observation was only heard by myself. ‘Is it in silk
stockings I’d be trapesing about the roads all night, with the rheumatiz
in the small of my back! Ugh! the Haythina!’
My mother was at length seated in the carriage, with Julia beside
her--the hundred and one petty annoyances to make travelling
uncomfortable, by way of rendering it supportable, around her; Corny had
mounted to his place beside Thomas, who regarded him with a look of as
profound contempt as a sleek, well-fed pointer would confer upon some
mangy mongrel of the roadside; a hurried good-bye from my mother, a
quick, short glance from Julia, a whisper lost in the crash of the
wheels--and they were gone.
CHAPTER L. THE RETREAT FROM BURGOS
Few men have gone through life without passing through certain periods
which, although not marked by positive misfortune, were yet so impressed
by gloom and despondence that their very retrospect is saddening. Happy
it is for us that in after days our memory is but little retentive of
these. We remember the shadows that darkened over the landscape, but we
forget in great part their cause and their duration, and perhaps even
sometimes are disposed to smile at the sources of grief to which long
habit of the world and its ways would have made us callous.
I was almost alone in the world--bereft of fortune, separated
irrevocably from the woman I loved, and by whom I had reason to think my
affection was returned. In that home to which I should have looked for
fondness I found only gloom and misfortune--my mother grown insensible
to everything save some frivolous narrative of her own health; my
father, once high-spirited and freehearted, care-worn, depressed, and
broken; my cousin, my early playfellow, half sweetheart and half sister,
bestowing her heart and affections on one so unworthy of her. All lost
to me--and at a time, too, when the heart is too weak and tender to
stand alone, but must cling to something, or it sinks upon the earth,
crushed and trodden upon.
I looked back upon my past life, and thought over the happy hours I had
spent in the wild west, roaming through its deep valleys and over its
heath-clad mountains. I thought of her my companion through many a long
summer day by the rocky shore, against which the white waves were ever
beating, watching the sea-birds careering full many a fathom deep below
us, their shrill cries mixing with the wilder plash of the ever-restless
sea--and how we dreamed away those hours, now half in sadness, now in
bright hope of long years to come, and found ourselves thus wandering
hand in hand, loved and loving; and then I looked out upon the bleak
world before me, without an object to win, without a goal to strive at.
‘Come, Jack,’ said my father, laying his hand on my shoulder, and
startling me out of my reverie, ‘one piece of good fortune we have had.
The duke has given me the command at Chatham; some hint of my altered
circumstances, it seems, had reached him, and without my applying, he
most kindly sent for me and told me of my appointment. You must join
the service companies of the Twenty-seventh by to-morrow; they are under
sailing-orders, and no time is to be lost. I told his grace that for
all your soft looks and smooth chin there was no lack of spirit in
your heart; and you must take an eagle, Jack, if you would keep up my
credit.’
Laughingly spoken as these few words were, they somehow struck upon a
chord that had long lain silent in my heart, and as suddenly awoke in me
the burning desire for distinction, and the ambitious thirst of military
glory.
The next evening at sunset the transport weighed anchor and stood out
to sea. A slight breeze off shore and an ebb-tide carried us gently
away from land; and as night was falling I stood alone, leaning on
the bulwarks, and looking fixedly on the faint shadows of the tall
chalk-cliffs, my father’s last words, ‘You must take an eagle, Jack!’
still ringing in my ears, and sinking deeply into my heart.
Had my accidents by flood and field been more numerous and remarkable
than they were, the recently-told adventures of my friend Charles
O’Malley would prevent my giving them to the public. The subaltern of a
marching regiment--a crack corps, it is true--I saw merely the ordinary
detail of a campaigning life; and although my desire to distinguish
myself rose each day higher, the greatest extent of my renown went
no further than the admiration of my comrades that one so delicately
nurtured and brought up should bear so cheerfully and well the roughings
of a soldier’s life; and my sobriquet of ‘Jack Hinton, the Guardsman,’
was earned among the stormy scenes and blood-stained fields of the
Peninsula.
My first experiences of military life were indeed but little
encouraging. I joined the army in the disastrous retreat from Burgos.
What a shock to all my cherished notions of a campaign! How sadly
different to my ideas of the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious
war! I remember well we first came up with the retiring forces on the
morning of the 4th of November. The day broke heavily; masses of dark
and weighty clouds drifted across the sky. The ground was soaked with
rain, and a cold, chilling wind swept across the bleak plain, and moaned
dismally in the dark pine-woods. Our party, which consisted of drafts
from the Fiftieth, Twenty-seventh, and Seventy-first regiments, were
stationed in a few miserable hovels on the side of the highroad from
Madrid to Labeyos. By a mistake of the way we had missed a body of
troops on the preceding day, and were now halted here in expectation
of joining some of the corps retiring on the Portuguese frontier. Soon
after daybreak a low rumbling sound, at first supposed to be the noise
of distant cannonading, attracted our attention; but some stragglers
coming up soon after, informed us that it proceeded from tumbrels and
ammunition-waggons of Sir Lowry Cole’s brigade, then on the march.
The news was scarcely communicated, when the head of a column appeared
topping the hill.
As they came nearer, we remarked that the men did not keep their ranks,
but strayed across the road from side to side; some carried their
muskets by the sling, others on the shoulder; some leaned on their
companions, as though faint and sick; and many there were whose savage
looks and bloated features denoted drunkenness. The uniforms were torn
and ragged; several of the men had no shoes, and some even had lost
their caps and shakos, and wore handkerchiefs bound round their heads.
Among these the officers were almost undistinguishable; fatigue,
hardship, and privation had levelled them with the men, and discipline
scarcely remained in that disorganised mass. On they came, their eyes
bent only on the long vista of road that lay before them. Some, silent
and sad, trudged on side by side; others, maddened by drink or wild with
the excitement of fever, uttered frightful and horrible ravings. Some
flourished their bayonets, and threatened all within their reach; and
denunciations of their officers and open avowals of desertion were
heard on every side as they went. The bugle sounded a halt as the column
reached the little hamlet where we were stationed; and in a few seconds
the road and the fields at either side were covered with the figures
of the men, who threw themselves down on the spot where they stood, in
every posture that weariness and exhaustion could suggest.
All the information we could collect was that this force formed part
of the rear-guard of the army; that the French under Marshal Soult were
hotly in pursuit, having already driven in the cavalry outposts, and
more than once throwing their skirmishers amongst our fellows. In a few
minutes the bugle again sounded to resume the march; and however little
disposed to yield to the dictates of discipline, yet old habit, stronger
than even lawless insubordination, prevailed; the men rose, and falling
in with some semblance of order, continued their way. Nothing struck me
more in that motley mass of ragged uniform and patched clothing than
the ferocious, almost savage, expression of the soldiers as they marched
past our better equipped and better disciplined party. Their dark scowl
betokened deadly hate; and I could see the young men of our detachment
quail beneath the insulting ruffianism of their gaze. Every now and then
some one or other would throw down his pack or knapsack to the ground,
and with an oath asseverate his resolve to carry it no longer. Some even
declared they would abandon their muskets; and more than one sat down
by the wayside, preferring death or imprisonment from the enemy to the
horrors and severities of that dreadful march.
The Highland regiments and the Guards alone preserved their former
discipline; the latter, indeed, had only lately joined the army, having
landed at Corunna a few weeks previously, and were perfect in every
species of equipment. Joining myself to a group of their officers,
I followed in the march, and was enabled to learn some tidings of my
friend O’Grady, who, I was glad to hear, was only a few miles in advance
of us, with his regiment.
Towards three o’clock we entered a dark pine-wood, through which the
route continued for several miles. Here the march became extremely
difficult, from the deep clayey soil, the worn and cut-up road, and more
than all the torrents of rain that swept along the narrow gorge, and
threw a darkness almost like night over everything. We plodded on
gloomily and scarcely speaking, when suddenly the galloping of horses
was heard in the rear, and we were joined by Sir Edward Paget, who,
with a single aide-de-camp, rode up to our division. After a few hurried
questions to the officer in command, he wheeled his horse round, and
rode back towards the next column, which, from some accidental delay,
was yet two miles in the rear. The sound of the horse’s hoofs was still
ringing along the causeway, when a loud shout, followed by the sharp
reports of pistol-firing, mingled with the voice. In an instant all was
as still as before, and save the crashing of the pine-branches and the
beating rain, no other sound was heard.
Our conjectures as to the cause of the firing were just making, when
an orderly dragoon, bareheaded and wounded, came up at the top of his
horse’s speed. The few hurried words he spoke in a half-whisper to our
commanding officer were soon reported through the lines. Sir Edward
Paget, our second in command, had been taken prisoner, carried away by
a party of French cavalry, who were daring enough to dash in between the
columns, which in no other retreat had they ventured to approach. The
temerity of our enemy, added to our own dispirited and defenceless
condition, was the only thing wanting to complete our gloom and
depression, and the march was now resumed in the dogged sullenness of
despair.
Day followed day, and all the miseries of our state but increased with
time, till on the morning of the 17th the town of Ciudad Rodrigo came in
view, and the rumour spread that stores of all kinds would be served out
to the famished troops.
By insubordination and intemperance we had lost seven thousand men since
the day the retreat from Burgos began, and although neither harassed by
night marches nor excessive journeys, losing neither guns, ammunition,
nor standards, yet was the memorable document addressed by Wellington to
the officers commanding divisions but too justly merited, concluding in
these words:--
‘The discipline of every army, after a long and active campaign, becomes
in some degree relaxed; but I am concerned to observe that the army
under my command has fallen off in this respect to a greater degree than
any army with which I have ever been, or of which I have ever read.’
CHAPTER LI. A MISHAP
If I began my career as a soldier at one of the gloomiest periods of our
Peninsular struggle, I certainly was soon destined to witness one of the
most brilliant achievements of our arms in the opening of the campaign
of 1813.
On the 22nd of May the march began--that forward movement, for the hour
of whose coming many a heart had throbbed, and many a bosom beat high.
From Ciudad Rodrigo to the frontier our way led through the scenes of
former glory; and if the veterans of the army exulted at once again
beholding the battlefields where victory had crowned their arms, the
new soldiers glowed with ambition to emulate their fame. As for myself,
short as the period had been since I quitted England, I felt that my
character had undergone a very great change; the wandering fancies of
the boy had sobered down into the more fixed, determined passions of the
man. The more I thought of the inglorious indolence of my former life,
the stronger was now my desire to deserve a higher reputation than
that of a mere lounger about a court, the military accompaniment of a
pageant. Happily for me, I knew not at the time how few opportunities
for distinction are afforded by the humble position of a subaltern; how
seldom occasions arise where, amid the mass around him, his name can win
praise or honour. I knew not this; and my reverie by day, my dream by
night, presented but one image--that of some bold, successful deed, by
which I should be honourably known and proudly mentioned, or my death be
that of a brave soldier in the field of glory.
It may be remembered by my reader that in the celebrated march by which
Wellington opened that campaign whose result was the expulsion of the
French armies from the Peninsula, the British left, under the command
of Graham, was always in advance of the main body. Their route traversed
the wild and dreary passes of the Tras-os-Montes, a vast expanse of
country, with scarcely a road to be met with, and but few inhabitants;
the solitary glens and gloomy valleys, whose echoes had waked to no
other sounds save those of the wild heron or the eagle, were now to
resound with the thundering roll of artillery waggons, the clanking
crash of cavalry columns, or the monotonous din of the infantry
battalions, as from sunrise to sunset they poured along--now scaling the
rugged height of some bold mountain, now disappearing among the wooded
depths of some dark ravine.
Owing to a temporary appointment on the staff, I was continually passing
and repassing between this portion of the army and the force under the
immediate command of Lord Wellington. Starting at daybreak, I have set
off alone through these wild untravelled tracts, where mountains rose in
solemn grandeur, their dark sides wooded with the gloomy cork-tree, or
rent by some hissing torrent whose splash was the only sound that broke
the universal silence--now dashing on with speed across the grassy
plain, now toiling along on foot, the bridle on my arm--I have seen the
sun go down and never heard a human voice, nor seen the footsteps of a
fellow-man; and yet what charms had those lonely hours for me, and what
a crowd of blissful thoughts and happy images they yet bring back to
me! The dark glen, the frowning precipice, the clear rivulet gurgling on
amid the mossy stones, the long and tangled weeds that hung in festoons
down some rocky cliff, through whose fissured sides the water fell in
heavy drops into a little basin at its foot--all spoke to me of the
happiest hours of my life, when, loved and loving, I wandered on the
livelong day. How often, as the day was falling, have I sat down to rest
beneath some tall beech, gazing on the glorious expanse of mountain and
valley, hill and plain, and winding river--all beneath me; and how, as
I looked, have my thoughts wandered away from those to many a far-off
mile; and then what doubts and hopes would crowd upon met Was I
forgotten? Had time and distance wiped away all memory of me? Was I as
one she had never seen, or was she still to me as when we parted? In
such moments as these how often have I recurred to our last meeting at
the holy well--and still, I own it, some vague feeling of superstition
has spoken hope to my heart, when reason alone had bid me despair.
It was at the close of a sultry day--the first of June; I shall not
readily forget it--that, overcome by fatigue, I threw myself down
beneath the shelter of a grove of acacias, and, tethering my horse with
his bridle, fell into one of my accustomed reveries. The heat of the
day, the drowsy hum of the summer insects, the very monotonous champ of
my horse, feeding beside me--all conspired to make me sleepy, and I fell
into a heavy slumber. My dreams, like my last-waking thoughts, were
of home; but, strangely enough, the scenes through which I had been
travelling, the officers with whom I was intimate, the wild guerilla
chiefs who from time to time crossed my path or shared my bivouac, were
mixed up with objects and persons many a mile away, making that odd and
incongruous collection which we so often experience in sleep. A kind of
low, unbroken sound, like the tramp of cavalry over grass, awoke me;
but still, such was my drowsiness that I was again about to relapse into
sleep, when the sound of a manly voice, singing at the foot of the rock
beneath me, fully aroused me. I started up, and, peeping cautiously
over the head of the cliff, beheld to my surprise and terror a party of
French soldiers stretched upon the greensward around a fire. It was the
first time I had ever seen the imperial troops, and notwithstanding
the danger of my position, I felt a most unaccountable longing to creep
nearer and watch their proceedings. The sounds I had heard at first
became at this moment more audible; and on looking down the glen I
perceived a party of about twenty dragoons cantering up the valley.
They were dressed in the uniform of the Chasseur Légers, and in
their light-blue jackets and silvered helmets had a most striking and
picturesque effect.
[Illustration: 3-092]
My astonishment at their appearance was not diminished by the figure who
rode gaily along at their head. She was a young and pretty-looking girl,
dressed in a blue frock and jean trousers; a light foraging-cap, with
the number of the regiment worked in silver on the front, and a small
canteen suspended from one shoulder by a black belt completed her
equipment. Her hair, of a glossy black, was braided richly at either
side of her face, and a couple of bows of light blue attested a degree
of coquetry the rest of her costume gave no evidence of. She rode _en
cavalier_; and the easy attitude in which she sat, and her steady hand
on the bridle, denoted that the regimental riding-school had contributed
to her accomplishments. I had heard before of the Vivandières of the
French army, but was in nowise prepared for the really pretty figure and
costume I now beheld.
As the riding-party approached, the others sprang to their feet,
and drawing up in line performed a mock salute, which the young lady
returned with perfect gravity; and then, carelessly throwing her bridle
to the one nearest, she dismounted. In a few moments the horses were
picketed; the packs were scattered about the grass; cooking utensils,
provisions, and wine were distributed; and, amid a perfect din of
merry voices and laughter, the preparations for dinner were commenced.
Mademoiselle’s part, on the whole, amused me not a little. Not engaging
in any of the various occupations about her, she seated herself on a
pile of cavalry cloaks at a little distance from the rest, and taking
out a much-worn and well-thumbed-looking volume from the pocket of her
coat, she began to read to herself with the most perfect unconcern
of all that was going on about her. Meanwhile the operations of the
_cuisine_ were conducted with a despatch and dexterity that only French
soldiers ever attain to; and, shall I confess it, the rich odour that
steamed upwards from the well-seasoned _potage_, the savoury smell of
the roast kid, albeit partaking of onions, and the brown breasts of
certain _poulets_ made me wish heartily that for half an hour or so I
could have changed my allegiance, converted myself into a _soldat de la
garde_, and led Mademoiselle in to dinner.
At length the party beneath had arranged their meal upon the grass;
and the corporal, with an air of no inconsiderable pretension, took
Mademoiselle’s hand to conduct her to the place of honour at the head of
the feast--calling out as he did, ‘Place, Messieurs, place pour Madame
la Duchesse de--de----’
‘N’importe quoi,’ said another; ‘the Emperor has many a battle to win
yet, and many a kingdom and a duchy to give away. As for myself, I count
upon the _bâton_ of a marshal before the campaign closes.’
‘Have done, I beg you, with such folly, and help me to some of that
_salmi_,’ said the lady, with a much more practical look about her than
her expression a few moments before denoted.
The feast now progressed with all the clatter which little ceremony,
hearty appetites, and good-fellowship produce. The wine went round
freely, and the _qui propos_, if I might judge from their mirth, were
not wanting; for I could but catch here and there a stray word or so of
the conversation.
All this time my own position was far from agreeable. Independent of
the fact of being a spectator of a good dinner and a jolly party while
famishing with hunger and thirst, my chance of escape depended either
on the party moving forward, or being so insensible from the effects of
their carouse that I might steal away unobserved. While I balanced with
myself which of these alternatives was more likely, an accident decided
the question. My horse, who up to this moment was grazing close beside
me, hearing one of the troop-horses neigh in the valley beneath, pricked
up his ears, plunged upwards, broke the bridle with which I had fastened
him, and cantered gaily down into the midst of the picketed animals. In
an instant every man sprang to his legs; some rushed to their holsters
and drew forth their pistols; others caught up their sabres from the
grass; and the young lady herself tightened her girth and sprang into
her saddle with the alacrity of one accustomed to moments of danger. All
was silence now for a couple of minutes, except the slight noise of the
troopers engaged in bridling their horses and fixing on their packs,
when a loud voice called out, ‘_Voilà!_; and the same instant every eye
in the party was directed to my shako, which hung on a branch of a tree
above me, and which up to this moment I had forgotten. Before I could
determine on any line of escape, three of the number had rushed up
the rock, and with drawn sabres commanded me to surrender myself their
prisoner. There was no choice; I flung down my sword with an air of
sulky resignation, and complied. My despatches, of which they soon
rifled me, sufficiently explained the cause of my journey, and allayed
any apprehensions they might have felt as to a surprise party. A few
brief questions were all they put to me; and then, conducting me down
the cliff to the scene of their bivouac, they proceeded to examine my
holsters and the flaps of my saddle for any papers which I might have
concealed in these places.
‘Eh, bien! mon colonel,’ said the leader of the party, as he drew
himself up before me, and carried his hand to his cap in a salute as
respectful and orderly as though I were his officer, ‘what say you to a
little supper ere we move forward?’
‘There’s the bill of fare.’ said another, laughing, as he pointed to the
remnant of roast fowls and stewed kid that covered the grass.
I was too young a soldier to comport myself at the moment with that
philosophic resignation to circumstances which the changeful fortunes of
war so forcibly instil, and I merely answered by a brief refusal, while
half unconsciously I threw my eyes around to see if no chance of escape
presented itself.
‘No, no,’ cried the corporal, who at once read my look and its meaning;
‘don’t try _that_, or you reduce me to the extremity of trying _this_,’
patting, as he spoke, the butt of his carbine with an air of easy
determination there was no mistaking.
‘Let me rather recommend Monsieur le Capitaine to try this,’ said the
Vivandière, who, unperceived by me, was all this while grilling the half
of a _poulet_ over the embers.
There was something in the kindness of the act, coupled as it was with
an air of graceful courtesy, that touched me; so, smothering all my
regretful thoughts at my mishap, I summoned up my best bow and my best
French to acknowledge the civility, and the moment after was seated on
the grass beside Mademoiselle Annette, discussing my supper with the
appetite of a man whose sorrows were far inferior to his hunger.
As the moon rose, the party, who evidently had been waiting for some
others they expected, made preparations for continuing their journey,
the first of which consisted in changing the corporal’s pack and
equipments to the back of my English thoroughbred, his own meagre
and raw-boned quadruped being destined for me. Up to this instant the
thought of escape had never left my mind. I knew I could calculate on
the speed of my horse; I had had some trials of his endurance, and the
only thing was to obtain such a start as might carry me out of bullet
range at once, and all was safe. Now this last hope deserted me, as I
beheld the miserable hack to which I was condemned; and yet, poignant
as this feeling was--shall I confess it?--it was inferior in its pain
to the sensation I experienced as I saw the rude French soldier, with
clumsy jack-boots and heavy hand, curvetting about upon my mettlesome
charger, and exhibiting his paces for the amusement of his companions.
The order was now given to mount, and I took my place in the middle
file--the dragoons on either side of me having unslung their carbines,
and given me laughingly to understand that I was to be made a riddle of
if I attempted an escape.
The long months of captivity that followed have, somehow, I cannot at
all explain why, left no such deep impression on my mind as the simple
events of that night. I remember it still like a thing of yesterday. We
travelled along the crest of a mountain, the valley lying in deep, dark
shadow beneath; the moon shone brightly out upon the grey granite
rocks beside us; our pace was sometimes pushed to a fast trot, and then
relaxed to a walk, the better, as it appeared to me, to indulge the
conversational tastes of my escort than for any other reason. Their
spirits never flagged for a moment; some jest or story was ever going
forward--some anecdote of the campaign, or some love adventure, of which
the narrator was the hero, commented on by all in turn with a degree
of sharp wit and ready repartee that greatly surprised me. In all
these narratives Mademoiselle played a prominent part, being invariably
referred to for any explanation which the difficulties of female
character seemed to require, her opinion on such points being always
regarded as conclusive. At times, too, they would break forth into some
rude hussar song, some regular specimen of camp lyric poetry, each verse
being sung by a different individual, and chorussed by the whole party
in common. I have said that these trifling details have left a deep
impression behind them. Stranger still, one of those wild strains haunts
my memory yet; and strikingly illustrative as it is, not only of those
songs in general but of that peculiar mixture of levity and pathos, of
reckless heartlessness and deep feeling so eminently French, I cannot
help giving it to my reader. It represents the last love-letter of a
soldier to his mistress, and runs thus:--
LE DERNIER ADIEU DU SOLDAT
I
‘Rose, l’intention d’la présente
Est de t’ informer d’ma santé.
L’armée française est triomphante,
Et moi j’ai l’bras gauche emporté.
Nous avons eu d’grands avantages;
La mitraille m’a brisé les os,
Nous avons pris arm’s et baggages;
Pour ma part j’ai deux bals dans l’dos.
II
‘J’ suis à l’hôpital d’où je pense
Partir bientôt pour chez les morts.
J’ t’envois dix francs qu’ celui qui me panse
M’a donnés pour avoir mon corps.
Je me suis dit puisq’il faut que je file,
Et que ma Rose perd son épouseur,
Ça fait que je mourrai plus tranquille
D’savoir que j’lui laiss’ ma valeur.
III
‘Lorsque j’ai quitté ma vieil l’mère,
Elle s’expirait sensiblement;
A rarrivée d’ma lettre j’espère
Qu’ell’ sera morte entièrement;
Car si la pauvre femme est guérite
Elle est si bonne qu’elle est dans le cas
De s’ faire mourir de mort subite
A la nouvelle de mon trépas.
IV
‘Je te recommand’ bien, ma p’tit’ Rose,
Mon bon chien; ne l’abandonn’ pas;
Surtout ne lui dis pas la chose
Qui fait qu’il ne me reverra pas--
Lui qu’ je suis sûr se fait une fête
De me voir rev’nir caporal;
Il va pleurer comme une bête,
En apprenant mon sort fatal.
V
‘Quoiqu’ ça c’est quelqu’ chose qui m’enrage
D’être fait mourir loin du pays--
Au moins quand on meurt au village,
On peut dire bonsoir aux amis,
On a sa place derrière l’église
On a son nom sur un’ croix de bois,
Et puis on espèr’ qu’ la payse
Viendra pour prière quelque fois.
VI
‘Adieu, Rose I adieu! du courage!
A nous r’voir il n’ faut plus songer;
Car au régiment où je m’engage
On ne vous accorde pas de congé.
Via tout qui tourne =! j’ n’y vois goutte!
Ah, c’est fini! j’ sens que j’ m’en vas;
J’ viens de recevoir ma feuill’ de route;
Adieu t Rose, adieu! n’ m’oubli’ pas.’
Fatigue and weariness, that seemed never to weigh upon my companions,
more than once pressed heavily on me. As I awoke from a short and
fitful slumber the same song continued; for having begun it, somehow it
appeared to possess such a charm for them they could not cease singing,
and the
‘Adieu! Rose, adieu! n’ m’oubli’ pas,’
kept ringing through my ears till daybreak.
CHAPTER LII. THE MARCH
Such, with little variety, was the history of each day and night of
our march--the days usually passed in some place of security and
concealment, while a reconnaissance would be made by some three or four
of the party; and, as night fell, the route was continued.
One incident alone broke the monotony of the journey. On the fourth
night we left the mountain and descended into a large open plain,
taking for our guide the course of a river which seemed familiar to
my companions. The night was dark; heavy masses of cloud concealed
the moon, and not a star was visible; the atmosphere was close and
oppressive, and there reigned around a kind of unnatural stillness,
unbroken by the flow of the sluggish river which moved on beside us. Our
pace had been a rapid one for some time; and contrary to their wont the
dragoons neither indulged in their gay songs nor merry stories, but kept
together with more of military precision than they had hitherto assumed.
I conjectured from this that we were probably approaching the French
lines; and on questioning the corporal, was told that such was the case.
A little after midnight we halted for a few moments to refresh the
horses. Each man dismounted, and stood with his hand upon the bridle;
and I could not but mark how the awful silence of the hour seemed
to prey upon their spirits as they spoke together in low and broken
whispers, as if fearful to interrupt the deep sleep of Nature. It was
just then that every eye was directed to a bright star that burst out
above the horizon, and seemed to expand gradually into a large mass
of great brilliancy, and again to diminish to a mere speck--which it
remained for some time, and then disappeared entirely. We continued
gazing on the dark spot where this phenomenon had appeared, endeavouring
by a hundred conjectures to explain it. Wearied at length with watching,
we were about to continue our journey, when suddenly from the quarter
from where the star had shone a rocket shot up into the dark sky and
broke into ten thousand brilliant fragments, which seemed to hang
suspended on high in the weight of the dense atmosphere. Another
followed, and another; then, after a pause of some minutes, a blue
rocket was seen to mount into the air, and explode with a report
which even at the distance we stood was audible. Scarcely had its last
fragments disappeared in the darkness when a low rumbling noise, like
the booming of distant thunder, seemed to creep along the ground. Then
came a rattling volley, as if of small-arms; and at last the whole
horizon burst into a red glare, which forked up from earth to sky with
a crash that seemed to shake the very ground beneath us. Masses of dark,
misshapen rock sprang into the blazing sky; millions upon millions of
sparks glittered through the air; and a cry, like the last expiring wail
of a drowning crew, rose above all other sounds--and all was still. The
flame was gone; the gloomy darkness had returned; not a sound was heard;
but in that brief moment four hundred of the French army met their
graves beneath the castle of Burgos, which in their hurried retreat they
had blown up, without apprising the troops who were actually marching
beneath its very walls.
Our route was now resumed in silence; even the levity of the French
soldiers had received a check; and scarcely a word passed as we rode on
through the gloomy darkness, anxiously looking for daybreak, to learn
something of the country about us.
Towards sunrise we found ourselves at the entrance of a mountain pass
traversed by the Ebro, which in some places almost filled the valley,
and left merely a narrow path between its waters and the dark cliffs
that frowned above. Here we proceeded--sometimes in single file; now
tracing the signs of the retreating force which had just preceded us,
now lost in astonishment at the prodigious strength of the position thus
abandoned. But even these feelings gave way before a stronger one--our
admiration of the exquisite beauty of the scenery. Glen after glen was
seen opening as we advanced into this wide valley, each bearing its
tributary stream to the mighty Ebro--the clear waters reflecting the
broken crags, the waving foliage, and the bright verdure that beamed
around, as orange-trees, laurels, and olives bent over the current, or
shot up in taper spires towards the clear blue sky. How many a sheltered
nook we passed, with an involuntary longing to rest and linger among
scenes so full of romantic beauty! But already the din of the retreating
column was borne towards us on the breeze, the heavy, monotonous roll
of large guns and caissons; while now and then we thought we could catch
the swell of martial music blending through the other sounds. But soon
we came up with waggons carrying the wounded and sick, who, having
joined by another road, had fallen to the rear of the march. From them
we learned that the King of Spain, Joseph himself, was with the advanced
guard, and that the destination of the forces was Vittoria, where a
junction with the _corps darmée_ of the other generals being effected,
it was decided on giving battle to the Anglo-Spanish army.
As we advanced, our progress became slower and more difficult; close
columns of infantry blocked up the road, or dense masses of cavalry,
with several hundred led horses and baggage mules, prevented all chance
of getting forward. Gradually, however, the valley widened, the mountain
became less steep; and by evening we reached a large plain, closed
towards the north-east by lofty mountains, which I learned were the
Pyrenees, and beheld in the far distance the tall spires of the city of
Vittoria. Several roads crossed the plain towards the city, all of which
were now crowded with troops--some pressing on in the direction of the
town, others taking up their position and throwing up hasty embankments
and stockades. Meanwhile the loaded waggons, with the spoil of the
rich convents and the royal treasure, were seen wending their slow way
beneath the walls of Vittoria on the road to Bayonne, escorted by a
strong cavalry force, whose bright helmets and breastplates pronounced
them Cuirassiers de la Garde. The animation and excitement of the whole
scene was truly intense, and as I rode along beside the corporal, I
listened with eagerness to his account of the various regiments as they
passed hither and thither and took up their positions on the wide plain.
‘There, look yonder,’ said he, ‘where that dark mass is defiling beside
the pine wood! See how they break into parties; watch them, how they
scatter along the low bank beside the stream under shelter of the
brushwood. There were eight hundred men in that battalion: where are
they now? All concealed--they are the tirailleurs of the army; and see
on that low mound above them where the flag is flying--the guns are
about to occupy that height. I was right, you see; there they come, six,
seven, eight pieces of heavy metal. _Sacrebleu!_ that must be a place of
some consequence.’
‘What are the troops yonder with the red tufts in their caps, and
scarlet trousers?’
‘_Ah, parbleu!_ your countrymen will soon know to their cost: they are
the Infanterie de la Garde. There’s not a man in the column you are
looking at who is not _decoré_.’
‘Look at this side, monsieur! See the Chasseurs à Cheval,’ said Annette,
putting her hand on my arm, while her bright eyes glanced proudly at the
glittering column which advanced by a road near us--coming along at a
sharp trot, their equipment clattering, their horses highly conditioned,
and the splendid uniform of light blue and silver giving them a most
martial air.
‘Bah!’ said the corporal contemptuously, ‘these are the dragoons to my
taste.’ So saying, he pointed to a dark column of heavy cavalry, who
led their horses slowly along by a narrow causeway; the long black
horse-hair trailed from their dark helmets with something of a gloomy
aspect, to which their flowing cloaks of deep blue added.
‘The Cuirassiers de Milhauds. But look--look yonder! _Tonnerre de ciel!_
see that!’
The object to which my attention was now directed was a park of
artillery that covered the whole line of road from the Miranda pass to
the very walls of Vittoria.
‘Two hundred, at least,’ exclaimed he, after counting some twenty or
thirty of the foremost. ‘_Ventre bleu!_ what chance have you before the
batteries of the Guard?’
As he spoke, the drums beat across the wide plain; a continuous dull
roll murmured along the ground. It ceased; the trumpets brayed forth a
call; a clanging crash followed, and I saw that the muskets were brought
to the shoulder, as the bayonets glanced in the sun and the sharp sabres
glittered along the squadrons. For a second or two all was still, and
then the whole air was rent with a loud cry of ‘_Vive le Roi!_’ while a
mounted party rode slowly from the left, and entering one of the gates
of the city disappeared from our sight. Night was now beginning to fail,
as we wended our way slowly along towards the walls of Vittoria--it
being the corporal’s intention to deliver his prisoner into the hands of
the _état major_ of Marshal Jourdan.
CHAPTER LIII. VITTORIA
What a contrast to the scene without the walls did the city of Vittoria
present! Scarcely had we left behind us the measured tread of moving
battalions, the dark columns of winding cavalry, when we entered streets
brilliantly lighted. Gorgeous and showy equipages turned everywhere;
music resounded on all sides; servants in splendid liveries made way
for ladies in all the elegance of evening dress, enjoying the delicious
coolness of a southern climate at sunset; groups of officers in full
uniform chatted with their fair friends from the balconies of the large
majestic houses; the sounds of gaiety and mirth were heard from every
open lattice, and the chink of the castanet and the proud step of the
fandango echoed around us.
Women, dressed in all the perfection of Parisian coquetry, loitered
along the streets, wondering at the strange sights the Spanish city
afforded--themselves scarcely less objects of wonder to the dark-eyed
senoras, who, with close-drawn mantillas, peered cautiously around them
to see the strangers. Young French officers swaggered boastfully about
with the air of conquerors, while now and then some tall and swarthy
Spaniard might be seen lowering with gloomy frown from under the broad
shadow of his sombrero, as if doubting the evidence of his own senses at
seeing his native city in the occupation of the usurper.
In the open plazas, too, the soldiers were picketed, and stood in
parties around their fires, or lay stretched on the rich tapestries they
had carried away as spoils from the southern provinces. Cups and goblets
of the rarest handiwork and of the most costly materials were strewn
about them. The vessels of the churches; the rich cloths of gold
embroidery that had decorated the altars; pictures, the _chefs-d’oeuvre_
of the first masters--all were there, in one confused heap, among
baskets of fruit, wine-skins, ancient armour, and modern weapons. From
time to time some brilliant staff would pass, usually accompanied by
ladies, who seemed strangely mixed up with all the military display of
the scene.
My guide, after conversing for a few moments with a _sous-officier_
of his regiment, turned from the Plaza into a narrow street, the
termination to which was formed by a large building now brilliantly lit
up. As we approached, I perceived that two sentries were on guard at the
narrow gate, and a large banner, with the imperial ‘N’ in the centre,
waved heavily over the entrance. ‘This is _le quartier général,_ said
the corporal, dropping his voice respectfully, as we drew near. At
the same instant a young officer, whose long plume bespoke him as an
aide-de-camp, pushed past us; but, turning hastily round, said something
I could not catch to the corporal. ‘Bien, mon lieutenant,’ said the
latter, carrying his hand to his shako. ‘Follow me, monsieur,’ said the
officer, addressing me, and the next moment I found myself in a large
and richly furnished room, when having motioned me to be seated, he left
me.
My meditations, such as they were, were not suffered to be long, for in
a few seconds the aide-de-camp made his appearance, and with a low bow
requested me to accompany him.
‘The general will receive you at once,’ said he.
I eagerly asked his name.
‘Le Général Oudinot.’
‘Ah, the Marshal?’
‘No; his brother. I perceive you are a young soldier; so let me give
you a hint. Don’t mind his manner; “c’est un brave homme” at bottom,
but’--the loud burst of laughter from a room at the end of the corridor
drowned the conclusion of his speech, and before I had time for another
question the door opened, and I was introduced.
In a small but richly furnished chamber sat four officers round a table
covered with a magnificent display of silver cups and plate, and upon
which a dessert was spread, with flasks of French and Spanish wine, and
a salver holding cigars; a book, apparently an orderly book, was before
them, from which one of the party was reading as I came in. As the
aide-de-camp announced me they all looked up, and the general, for
I knew him at once, fixing his eyes steadily on me, desired me to
approach.
As I obeyed his not very courteous order, I had time to perceive that
the figure before me was that of a stout, square-built man of about
fifty-five or sixty. His head was bald; his eyebrows, of a bushy grey,
were large and meeting. A moustache of the same grizzly appearance
shaded his lip, and served to conceal two projecting teeth, which, when
he spoke, displayed themselves like boar’s tusks, giving a peculiarly
savage expression to his dark and swarthy countenance. The loose sleeve
of his coat denoted that he had lost his left arm high up; but whenever
excited, I could see that the short stump of the amputated limb jerked
convulsively in a manner it was painful to look at.
‘What, a deserter! a spy! Eh, what is it, Alphonse?’
The aide-de-camp, blushing, whispered some few words rapidly, and the
general resumed--
‘Ha! Be seated, monsieur.’ The officers of the imperial army know how to
treat their prisoners; though, _pardieu_, they can’t teach their enemies
the lesson! You have floating prisons, they tell me, in England, where
my poor countrymen die of disease and starvation. _Sacré Dieu!_ what
cruelty!’
‘You have been misinformed, General. The nation I belong to is uniformly
humane to all whom chance of war has made its prisoners, and never
forgets that the officers of an army are gentlemen.’
‘Ha! what do you mean?’ said he, becoming dark with passion, as he half
rose from his seat; then, stopping suddenly short, he continued in a
voice of suppressed anger, ‘Where are your troops? What number of men
has your Villainton got with him?’
‘Of course,’ said I, smiling, ‘you do not expect me to answer such
questions.’
‘Do you refuse it?’ said he, with a grim smile.
‘I do distinctly refuse,’ was my answer.
‘What rank do you hold in your service?’
‘I am but a subaltern.’
‘_Tenez!_’ said another of the party, who for some time past had been
leisurely conning over the despatches which had been taken from me, ‘You
are called “capitaine” here, monsieur.’
‘Ha! ha! What say you to that?’ cried the general exultingly. ‘Read it,
Chamont.’
‘“The despatches which Captain Airey will deliver----”
Is it not so?’ said he, handing me the paper.
‘Yes,’ said I coolly; ‘he is the senior aide-de-camp; but being employed
on General Graham’s staff, now occupied in the pursuit of your army----’
‘_Mille tonnerres!_ Young man, you have chosen an unsuitable place to
cut your jokes!’
‘Sa Majesté le Roi,’ said an aide-de-camp, entering hastily, and
throwing the door open to its full extent; and scarcely had the party
time to rise when the Emperor’s brother appeared.
Of the middle size, pale, and with a thoughtful, expressive countenance,
Joseph Bonaparte’s appearance was much in his favour. His forehead was
lofty and expansive, his eye large and full, and the sweet smile
which seemed the gift of every member of the family he possessed in
perfection. After a few words with General Oudinot, whose rough manner
and coarse bearing suffered no change by his presence, he turned towards
me, and with much mildness of voice and courtesy of demeanour inquired
if I were wounded. On hearing that I was not, he expressed a hope that
my captivity would be of brief duration, as exchanges were already in
progress. ‘Meanwhile,’ said he, ‘you shall have as little to complain of
as possible.’
As he concluded these few but to me most comforting words, I received a
hint from the aide-de-camp to withdraw, which I did, into an adjoining
room. The same aide-de-camp by whom I had hitherto been accompanied now
joined me, and, slapping me familiarly on the shoulder, cried out--
‘_Eh, bien!_ I hope now you are satisfied. Joseph is a fine, generous
fellow, and will take care not to forget his promise to you. Meanwhile,
come and take a share of my supper.’
He opened a door in the wainscot as he spoke, and introduced me into a
perfectly-fitted-up little boudoir, where a supper had been laid out
for him. Another cover was soon provided for me, and in a few minutes
we were seated at table, chatting away about the war and the opposing
armies, as though instead of partisans we had merely been lookers-on at
the great game before us. My companion, though but a year or two older
than myself, held the grade of colonel, every step to which he won at
the point of his sword; he was strikingly handsome, and his figure,
though slight, powerfully knit. As the champagne passed back and forward
between us, confidences became interchanged, and before midnight sounded
I found my companion quite familiar with the name of Louisa Bellew,
while to my equal astonishment I was on terms of perfect intimacy with
a certain lovely marquise of the Chaussée d’Antin. The tinkle of a sharp
bell suddenly called the aide-de-camp to his legs; so drinking off a
large goblet of cold water, and taking up his chapeau, he left the room.
I now threw myself back into my chair, and, tossing off a bumper of
champagne, began to reason myself into the belief that there were worse
things even than imprisonment among the French. Flitting thoughts of the
past, vague dreams of the future, confused images of the present, were
all dancing through my brain, when the door again opened, and I heard my
companion’s footsteps behind me.
‘Do you know, Alphonse,’ said I, without turning in my chair, ‘I have
been seriously thinking of making my escape? It is quite clear that a
battle is not far off; and, by Jove! if I only have the good fortune to
meet with your _chef d état major_, that savage old Oudinot, I’ll pledge
myself to clear off scores with him.’
A half chuckle of laughter behind induced me to continue:--
‘That old fellow certainly must have risen from the ranks--not a touch
of breeding about him. I’m certain his Majesty rated him soundly for his
treatment of me, when I came away. I saw his old moustaches bristling
up; he knew he was in for it.’
A louder laugh than at first, but in somewhat of a different cadence,
induced me to torn my head, when what was my horror to see before me,
not my new friend the aide-de-camp, but General Oudinot himself, who
all this time had been listening to my polite observations regarding his
future welfare! There was a savage exultation in his look as his eye met
mine, and for a second or two he seemed to enjoy my confusion too much
to permit him to break silence. At last he said--
‘Are you on parole, sir?’
‘No,’ I briefly replied, ‘nor shall I be.’
‘What, have I heard you aright? Do you refuse your parole?’
‘Yes; I shall not pledge myself against attempting my escape the very
first opportunity that offers.’
‘Indeed,’ said he slowly, ‘indeed! What is to become of poor General
Oudinot if such a casualty take place? But come, sir, I have his
Majesty’s orders to accept your parole; if you refuse it, you are then
at _my_ disposal. I have received no other instructions about you. Yes
or no--I ask you for the last time.’
‘No! distinctly no!’
‘C’est bien; holla, garde! numéro dix et onze.’
Two soldiers of the grenadiers, with fixed bayonets, appeared at the
door; a few hurried words were spoken, the only part of which I could
catch was the word _cachot_ I was at once ordered to rise; a soldier
walked on either side of me, and I was in this way conducted through
the city to the prison of the gendarmerie, where for the night I was
to remain, with orders to forward me the next morning at daybreak, with
some Spanish prisoners, on the road to Bayonne.
CHAPTER LIV. THE RETREAT
My cell, for such it was, although dignified with the appellation of
chamber, looked out by a small window upon a narrow street, the opposite
side to which was formed by the wall of a churchyard pertaining to a
convent. As day broke, I eagerly took my place at the casement to watch
what was going on without; but except some bareheaded figure of a monk
gliding along between the dark yew avenues, or some female in deep
mourning passing to her morning’s devotions beside the grave of a
relative, I could see nothing. A deep silence seemed to brood over the
city, so lately the scene of festivity and mirth. Towards four o’clock,
however, I could hear the distant roll of drums, which gradually
extended from the extreme right to the left of the plain before the
town; then I heard the heavy monotonous tramp of marching, broken
occasionally by the clank of the brass bands of the cavalry, or the deep
sullen thunder of the artillery waggons as they moved along over the
paved roads. The sounds came gradually nearer; the trumpets too joined
the clamour with the shrill reveille, and soon the streets towards
the front of the prison re-echoed with the unceasing clatter of troops
moving forward. I could hear the voices of the officers calling to the
men to move up; heard more than once the names of particular regiments,
as some distinguished corps were passing. The music of the bands was
quick and inspiriting; and as some popular air was struck up, the men
would break forth suddenly into the words, and the rough-voiced chorus
rang through the narrow streets, and fell heavily on my own heart as I
lay there a prisoner. Hour after hour did this continue, yet the silence
behind remained as unbroken as ever; the lonely churchyard, with its
dark walks and sad-looking trees, was still and deserted. By degrees
the din in front diminished; regiments passed now only at intervals, and
their pace, increased to a run, left no time for the bands; the cavalry,
too, trotted rapidly by, and at last all was still as in the gloomy
street before me.
It was now eight o’clock, and no summons had yet come to me, although
I had heard myself the order for our marching on the Bayonne road by
sunrise. The prison was still as the grave; not a step could I hear; not
a bolt nor a hinge creaked. I looked to the window, but the strong iron
grating that defended it left no prospect of escape; the door was even
stronger, and there was no chimney. The thought occurred to me that the
party had forgotten me, and had gone away with the other prisoners. This
thought somehow had its consolation; but the notion of being left to
starve came suddenly across me, and I hastened to the window to try and
make myself known to some chance passer-by.
Just then the loud boom of a gun struck upon my ear; another followed,
louder still; and then a long heavy crashing noise, which rose and fell
as the wind bore it, told me that the work of death had begun. The sound
of the large guns, which at first came only at intervals, now swelled
into one loud continuous roar, that drowned all other noise. The strong
frames of the windows shook, and the very ground beneath my feet seemed
to tremble with the dreadful concussion of the artillery; sometimes the
din would die away for a few seconds, and then, as the wind freshened,
it would swell into a thunder so loud as to make me think the battle
was close to where I stood. Hour after hour did this continue; and now,
although the little street beside me was thronged with many an anxious
group, I no longer thought of questioning them. My whole soul was
wrapped up in the one thought--that of the dreadful engagement; and as
I listened, my mind was carrying on with itself some fancied picture
of the fight, with no other guide to my imaginings than the distant
clangour of the battle. Now I thought that the French were advancing,
that their battery of guns had opened; and I could imagine the dark
mass that moved on, their tall shakos and black belts peering amidst
the smoke that lay densely in the field. On they poured, thousand after
thousand; ay, there goes the fusilade--the platoons are firing. But now
they halt; the crash of fixing bayonets is heard; a cheer breaks forth;
the cloud is rent; the thick smoke is severed as if by a lightning
flash; the red-coats have dashed through at the charge; the enemy waits
not; the line wavers and breaks; down come the cavalry, like an eagle on
the swoop! But again the dread artillery opens; the French form beneath
the lines, and the fight is renewed.
The fever of my mind was at its height. I paced my room with hurried
steps, and springing to the narrow casement, held my ear to the wall to
listen. Forgetting where I was, I called out as though at the head of my
company, with the wild yell of the battle around me, and the foe before
me.
Suddenly the crowd beneath the window broke; the crash of cavalry
equipments resounded through the street, and the head of a squadron of
cuirassiers came up at a trot, followed by a train of baggage-waggons,
with six horses to each; the drivers whipped and spurred their cattle,
and all betokened haste. From the strength of the guard and the
appearance of the waggons, I conjectured that they were the treasures of
the army--an opinion in which I was strengthened by the word ‘Bayonne’
chalked in large letters on a chest thrown on the top of a carriage.
Some open waggons followed, in which the invalids of the army lay, a
pale and sickly mass; their lack-lustre eyes gazed heavily around with a
stupid wonder, like men musing in a dream. Even they, however, had arms
given them, such was the dread of falling into the hands of the guerilla
bands who infested the mountain passes, and who never gave quarter even
to the wounded and the dying.
The long file at length passed, but only to make way for a still longer
procession of Spanish prisoners, who, bound wrist to wrist, marched
between two files of mounted gendarmes. The greater number of these were
mountaineers, guerillas of the south, condemned to the galleys for life,
their bronzed faces and stalwart figures a striking contrast to their
pale and emaciated companions, the inhabitants of the towns, who could
scarce drag their weary limbs along, and seemed at every step ready to
sink between misery and privation. The ribald jests and coarse language
of the soldiers were always addressed to these, there seeming to be
a kind of respect for the bolder guerillas even in the hour of their
captivity. The tramp of led horses, the roll of waggons, the cracking of
whips, mingled with the oaths of muleteers and the fainter cries of the
sick, now filled the air, and only occasionally did the loud cannonade
rise above them. From every window faces appeared, turned with excited
eagerness towards the dense crowds; and though I could perceive that
inquiries as to the fate of the day were constantly made and answered,
my ignorance of Spanish prevented my understanding what was said.
The noise in front of the prison, where the thoroughfare was wider and
larger, far exceeded that around me; and at last I could hear the steps
of persons marching overhead, and ascending and descending the stairs.
Doors clapped and slammed on every side; when, suddenly, the door of
my own cell was shaken violently, and a voice cried out in French, ‘Try
this; I passed twice without perceiving it.’ The next moment the lock
turned, and my room was filled with dragoons, their uniforms splashed
and dirty, and evidently bearing the marks of a long and severe march.
‘Are you the Guerilla Guiposcoa de Condeiga?’ said one of the party,
accosting me, as I stood wrapped up in my cloak.
‘No; I am an English officer.’
‘Show your epaulettes, then,’ said another, who knew that Spanish
officers never wore such.
I opened my cloak, when the sight of my red uniform at once satisfied
them. At this instant a clamour of voices without was heard, and several
persons called out, ‘We have him! here he is!’ The crowd around me
rushed forth at the sound; and following among them I reached the
street, now jammed up with horse and foot, waggons, tumbrels, and
caissons--some endeavouring to hasten forward towards the road to
Bayonne; others as eagerly turned towards the plain of Vittoria, where
the deafening roll of artillery showed the fight was at its fiercest.
The dragoons issued forth, dragging a man amongst them whose enormous
stature and broad chest towered above the others, but who apparently
made not the slightest resistance as they hurried him forward, shouting,
as they went, ‘_A la grand’ place!--à la place!_’
It was the celebrated Guerilla Guiposcoa, who had distinguished himself
by acts of heroic daring, and sometimes by savage cruelty towards the
French, and who had fallen into their hands that morning. Anxious to
catch a glance at one of whom I had heard so often, I pressed forward
among the rest, and soon found myself in the motley crowd of soldiers
and townspeople that hurried towards the Plaza.
Scarcely had I entered the square when the movement of the multitude was
arrested, and a low whispering murmur succeeded to the deafening shouts
of vengeance and loud cries of death I had heard before; then came the
deep roll of a muffled drum. I made a strong effort to press forward,
and at length reached the rear of a line of dismounted dragoons who
stood leaning on their carbines, their eyes steadily bent on a figure
some twenty paces in front. He was leisurely employed in divesting
himself of some of his clothes, which, as he took off, he piled in a
little heap beside him; his broad guerilla hat, his dark cloak, his
sheep’s-wool jacket slashed with gold, fell one by one from his hand,
and his broad manly chest at last lay bare, heaving with manifest pride
and emotion, as he turned his dark eyes calmly around him. Nothing was
now heard in that vast crowd save when some low, broken sob of grief
would burst from the close-drawn mantillas of the women, as they offered
up their heartfelt prayers for the soul of the patriot.
A low parapet wall, surmounted by an iron railing, closed in this part
of the Plaza, and separated it from a deep and rapid river that flowed
beneath--a branch of the Ebro. Beyond, the wide plain of Vittoria
stretched away towards the Pyrenees; and two leagues distant the scene
of the battle was discernible, from the heavy mass of cloud that lowered
overhead, and the deep booming of the guns that seemed to make the air
tremulous.
The Spaniard turned his calm look towards the battlefield, and for an
instant his dark eye flashed back upon his foes with an expression
of triumphant daring, which seemed as it were to say, ‘I am avenged
already!’ A cry of impatience burst from the crowd of soldiers, and the
crash of their firelocks threatened that they would not wait longer for
his blood. But the guerilla’s manner changed at once, and holding up a
small ebony crucifix before him, he seemed to ask a moment’s respite for
a short prayer.
The stillness showed his request was complied with; he turned his back
towards the crowd, and placing the crucifix on the low parapet, he bent
down on both his knees, and seemed lost in his devotions. As he rose
I thought I could perceive that he threw a glance, rapid as lightning,
over the wall towards the river that flowed beneath. He now turned fully
round; and unfastening the girdle of many a gay colour that he wore
round his waist, he threw it carelessly on his left arm; and then,
baring his breast to the full, knelt slowly down, and with his arms wide
apart called out in Spanish, ‘Here is my life! come, take it!’ The words
were scarcely uttered, when the carbines clanked as they brought them
to the shoulder; the sergeant of the company called out the words,
‘_Donnez!_’ a pause--‘_Feu!_’ The fusilade rang out, and as my eyes
pierced the smoke I could see that the guerilla had fallen to the earth,
his arms crossed upon his bosom.
A shriek wild and terrific burst from the crowd. The blue smoke slowly
rose, and I perceived the French sergeant standing over the body of
the guerilla, which lay covered with blood upon the turf. A kind of
convulsive spasm seemed to twitch the limbs, upon which the Frenchman
drew his sabre. The rattle of the steel scabbard rang through my heart;
the bright weapon glanced as he raised it above his head. At the same
instant the guerilla chief sprang to his legs; he tottered as he did so,
for I could see that his left arm hung powerless at his side, but his
right held a long poniard. He threw himself upon the Frenchman’s bosom;
a yell followed, and the same moment the guerilla sprang over the
battlements, and with a loud splash dropped into the river beneath. The
water had scarce covered his body, as the Frenchman fell a corpse upon
the ground.
A perfect roar of madness and rage burst from the French soldiers, as,
rushing to the parapet, a hundred balls swept the surface of the river;
but the tall reeds of the bank had already concealed the bold guerilla,
whose left arm had received the fire of the soldiers, who now saw the
meaning of that quick movement by which he had thrown his girdle around
it. The incident was but the work of a few brief moments; nor was there
longer time to think on it, for suddenly a squadron of cavalry swept
past at the full speed of their horses, calling out the words, ‘Place
there! Make way there in front! The ambulance! the ambulance!’
A low groan of horror rose around; the quick retreat of the wounded
betokened that the battle was going against the French; the words
‘beaten and retreat’ reechoed through the crowd; and as the dark
suspicion crept amid the moving mass, the first waggon of the wounded
slowly turned the angle of the square, a white flag hanging above it. I
caught but one glance of the sad convoy; but never shall I forget
that spectacle of blood and agony. Torn and mangled, they lay an
indiscriminate heap--their faces blackened with powder, their bodies
shattered with wounds. High above the other sounds their piercing cries
rent the air, with mingled blasphemies and insane ravings. Meanwhile the
drivers seemed only anxious to get forward, as, deaf to every prayer and
entreaty, they whipped their horses and called out to the crowd to make
way.
Escape was now open; but where could I go? My uniform exposed me to
immediate detection; should I endeavour to conceal myself, discovery
would be my death. The vast tide of people that poured along the streets
was a current too strong to stem, and I hesitated what course to follow.
My doubts were soon resolved for me; an officer of General Oudinot’s
staff, who had seen me the previous night, rode up close to where I
stood, and then turning to his orderly, spoke a few hurried words. The
moment after, two heavy dragoons, in green uniform and brass helmets,
came up, one at either side of me; without a second’s delay one of them
unfastened a coil of small rope that hung at his saddle-bow, which with
the assistance of the other was passed over my right wrist and drawn
tight. In this way, secured like a malefactor, I was ordered forward. In
vain I remonstrated; in vain I told them I was a British officer; to no
purpose did I reiterate that hitherto I had made no effort to escape.
It is not in the hour of defeat that a Frenchman can behave either
with humanity or justice. A volley of _sacrés_ was the only answer I
received, and nothing was left me but to yield.
Meanwhile the tumult and confusion of the town was increasing every
minute. Heavy waggons inscribed in large letters, ‘Domaine extérieure de
sa Majesté l’Empereur,’ containing the jewels and treasures of Madrid,
passed by, drawn by eight and sometimes ten horses, and accompanied by
strong cavalry detachments. Infantry regiments, blackened with smoke
and gunpowder, newly arrived from the field, hurried past to take up
positions on the Bayonne road to protect the retreat; then came the
nearer din and crash of the artillery as the French army were falling
back upon the town.
Scarcely had we issued from the walls of the city when the whole scene
of flight and ruin was presented to our eyes. The country for miles
round was one moving mass of fugitives; cannon, waggons, tumbrels,
wounded soldiers, horsemen, and even splendid equipages were all mixed
up together on the Pampeluna road, which lay to our right. The march was
there intercepted by an overturned waggon; the horses were plunging, and
the cries of wounded men could be heard even where we were. The fields
at each side of the way were soon spread over by the crowd, eager to
press on. Guns were now abandoned and thrown into ditches and ravines;
the men broke their muskets, and threw the fragments on the roadside,
and vast magazines of powder were exploded here and there through the
plain.
But my attention was soon drawn to objects more immediately beside
me. The Bayonne road, which we now reached, was the last hope of the
retiring army. To maintain this line of retreat strong detachments of
infantry, supported by heavy guns, were stationed at every eminence
commanding the position; but the swooping torrent of the retreat had
left little time for these to form, many of whom were borne along with
the flying army. Discipline gave way on every side; the men sprang
upon the waggons, refusing to march; the treasures were broken open and
thrown upon the road. Frequently the baggage-guard interchanged shots
and sabre-cuts with the infuriated soldiers, who only thought of escape;
and the ladies, who but yesterday were the objects of every care and
solicitude, were hurried along amid that rude multitude--some on foot,
others glad to be allowed to take a place in the ambulance among the
wounded, their dresses blood-stained and torn, adding to the horror and
misery of the scene.
Such was the prospect before us. Behind, a dark mass hovered as if even
yet withstanding the attack of the enemy, whose guns thundered clearer
and clearer every moment. Still the long line of wounded came on--some
in wide open carts, others stretched upon the gun-carriages, mangled and
bleeding. Among these my attention was drawn to one whose head having
fallen over the edge of the cart was endangered by every roll of the
heavy wheel that grazed his very skull. There was a halt, and I seized
the moment to assist the poor fellow as he lay thus in peril. His helmet
had fallen back, and was merely retained by the brass chain beneath his
chin; his temples were actually cleft open by a sabre-cut, and I could
see that he had also received some shot-wounds in the side, where he
pressed his hands, the blood welling up between the fingers. As I lifted
the head to place it within the cart, the eyes opened and turned fully
upon me. A faint smile of gratitude curled his lip; I bent over him, and
to my horror recognised in the mangled and shattered form before me the
gallant fellow with whom the very night before I had formed almost a
friendship. The word ‘cold,’ muttered between his teeth, was the only
answer I could catch as I called him by his name. The order to march
rang out from the head of the convoy, and I had barely time to unfasten
my cloak and throw it over him ere the waggon moved on. I never saw him
after.
A squadron of cavalry now galloped past, reckless of all before them;
the traces of their artillery were cut, and the men, mounting the
horses, deserted the guns, and rode for their lives. In the midst of
the flying mass a splendid equipage flew past, its six horses lashed
to madness by the postillions; a straggling guard of honour galloped at
either side, and a grand _écuyer_ in scarlet, who rode in front, called
out incessantly, ‘Place, place, pour sa Majesté!’ But all to no purpose;
the road, blocked up by broken waggons, dense crowds of horse and
foot, dead and dying, soon became impassable. An effort to pass a
heavily-loaded waggon entangled the coach; the axle was caught by the
huge waggon; the horses plunged when they felt the restraint, and the
next moment the royal carriage was hurled over on its side, and fell
with a crash into the ravine at the roadside. While the officers of
his staff dismounted to rescue the fallen monarch, a ribald burst of
laughter rose from the crowd, and a pioneer actually gave the butt of
his carbine to assist the king as, covered with mud, he scrambled up
the ditch. I had but an instant to look upon his pale countenance, which
even since the night before seemed to have grown many years older, ere I
was myself dragged forward among the crowd.
Darkness now added its horror to the scene of riot and confusion. The
incessant cries of the fugitives told that the English cavalry were
upon them; the artillery came closer and closer, and the black sky was
traversed by many a line of fire, as the shells poured down upon the
routed army. The English guns, regardless of roads, dashed down on
the terrified masses, raining balls and howitzer-shells on every side.
Already the cheers of my gallant countrymen were within my hearing, and
amid all the misery and danger around me my heart rose proudly at the
glorious victory they had gained.
Meanwhile my escort, whose feeling towards me became more brutal as
their defeat was more perceptible, urged me forward with many an oath
and imprecation. Leaving the main road, we took the fields, already
crowded with the infantry. At last, as the charges of the English came
closer, my escort seemed to hesitate upon being any longer burdened by
me, and one, after interchanging some angry words with his companion,
rode off, leaving me to the care of him who passed the cord round my
wrist. For a second or two this fellow seemed to waver whether he might
not dispose of me more briefly, and once he half withdrew his pistol
from the holster, and turned round in his saddle to regard me more
steadily. A better feeling, however, gained the mastery; the hope, too,
of promotion, could he bring in an officer his prisoner, had doubtless
its share in his decision. He ordered me to jump up behind him, and,
dashing spurs into his troop-horse, rode forward.
I have, perhaps, lingered too long in my recollections of this eventful
night; it was, however, the last striking incident which preceded a long
captivity. On the third day of the retreat I was joined to a band of
Spanish prisoners marching towards Bayonne. Of the glorious victory
which rescued the Peninsula from the dominion of the French, and drove
their beaten armies beyond the Pyrenees, or of the great current of
events which followed the battle of Vittoria, I do not purpose to
speak. Neither will I trouble my reader with a narrative of hardship
and suffering; it is enough to mention that my refusal to give my parole
subjected me in all cases to every indignity. Wearied out at length,
however, I accepted this only chance of rendering life endurable; and
on reaching Bayonne I gave my word not to attempt my escape, and was
accordingly separated from my companions in misfortune, and once more
treated as a gentleman.
The refusal to accept ‘parole,’ I learned afterwards, was invariably
construed by the French authorities of the day into a direct avowal not
only to attempt escape by any means that might present themselves, but
was also deemed a rejection of the hospitality of the country, which
placed the recusant beyond the pale of its courtesy. No sooner had I
complied with this necessity--for such it was--than I experienced the
greatest kindness and politeness in every quarter. Through every village
in the south, the house of the most respectable inhabitant was always
opened to me; and with a delicacy it would be difficult to match
elsewhere, although the events of the Spanish war were the subjects of
general interest wherever we passed, not a word was spoken nor a hint
dropped before the ‘prisoner’ which could in the slightest degree offend
his nationality or hurt his susceptibility as an enemy.
*****
I shall now beg of my reader to pass over with me a long interval of
time, during which my life presented nothing of interest or incident,
and accompany me to the environs of St. Omer, where, in the commencement
of the year 1814 I found myself domesticated as a prisoner of war on
parole. During the long period that had elapsed since the battle of
Vittoria, I had but once heard from home. Matters there were pretty much
as I had left them. My father had removed to a colonial appointment,
whence he transmitted the rich revenues of his office to my mother,
whose habitual economy enabled her to dispense hospitality at Bath, much
in the same kind of way as she had formerly done at London. My lovely
cousin--in the full possession of her beauty and a large fortune--had
refused some half-dozen brilliant proposals, and was reported to have an
unswerving attachment to some near relative--which happy individual,
my mother suggested, was myself. Of the Bellews, I learned from the
newspapers that Sir Simon was dead; and Miss Bellew, having recovered
most of the great estates of her family through the instrumentality of a
clever attorney (whom I guessed to be my friend Paul), was now the great
belle and fortune of Dublin. I had frequently written home, and once or
twice to the Rooneys and the Major, but never received any answer; so
that at last I began to think myself forgotten by every one, and dreamed
away my life in a state almost of apathy--dead to the exciting events of
the campaign, which, even in the seclusion where I lived, were from time
to time reported. The brilliant march of our victorious troops through
the Pyrenees and the south of France, Nivelle, Orthez, and Toulouse, I
read of as people read of long past events. Life to me appeared to have
run out; and my thoughts turned ever backward to the bright morning
of my career in Ireland--my early burst of manhood, my first and only
passion.
The old royalist seigneur upon whom I was billeted could evidently
make nothing of the stolid indifference with which I heard him and his
antiquated spouse discuss the glorious prospect of a restoration of
the Bourbons: even the hope of liberty was dying away within me. One
ever-present thought had damped all ardour and all ambition--I had done
nothing as a soldier; my career had ended as it begun; and, while others
had risen to fame and honour, _my_ name had won nothing of distinction
and repute. Instead of anxiously looking forward to a meeting
with Louisa Bellew, I dreaded the very thoughts of it. My mother’s
fashionable _morgue_ and indifference I should now feel as a sarcasm
on my own failure; and as to my cousin Julia, the idea alone of her
raillery was insufferable. The only plan I could devise for the future
was, as soon as I should recover my liberty, to exchange into some
regiment in the East Indies, and never to return to England.
It was, then, with some surprise and not much sympathy that I beheld
my venerable host appear one morning at breakfast with a large white
cockade in the breast of his frock-coat, and a huge white lily in a
wineglass before him. His elated manner and joyous looks were all so
many riddles to me; while the roll of drums in the peaceful little town,
the ringing of bells, and the shouts of the inhabitants were all too
much even for apathy like mine.
‘What is the _tintamarre_ about?’ said I pettishly, as I saw the old
gentleman fidget from the table to the window and then back again,
rubbing his hands, admiring his cockade, and smelling at the lily,
alternatively.
‘Tintamarre!’ said he indignantly, ‘savez-vous, monsieur? Ce n’est pas
le mot, celui-là. We are restored, sir! we have regained our rightful
throne! we are no longer exiles!’
‘Yes!’ said the old lady, bursting into the room, and throwing herself
into her husband’s arms, and then into mine, in a rapture of
enthusiasm--‘yes, brave young man! to you and your victorious companions
in arms we owe the happiness of this moment. We are restored!’
‘Yes! restored! restored!’ echoed the old gentleman, throwing open the
window, and shouting as though he would have burst a blood-vessel; while
the mob without, catching up the cry, yelled it louder than ever.
‘These people must be all deranged,’ thought I, unable to conjecture
at the moment the reasons for such extravagant joy. Meanwhile, the room
became crowded with townspeople in holiday costume, all wearing the
white cockade, and exchanging with one another the warmest felicitations
at the happy event.
I now soon learned that the Allies were in the possession of Paris, that
Napoleon had abdicated, and the immediate return of Louis xviii. was
already decided upon. The trumpets of a cavalry regiment on the march
were soon added to the uproar without, accompanied by cries of
‘The English! The brave English!’ I rushed to the door, and to my
astonishment beheld above the heads of the crowd the tall caps of a
British dragoon regiment towering aloft. Their band struck up as they
approached; and what a sensation did my heart experience as I heard the
well-remembered air of ‘Garryowen’ resound through the little streets of
a French village!
‘An Irish regiment!’ said I, half aloud.
The word was caught by a bystander, who immediately communicated it to
the crowd, adding, by way of explanation, ‘Les Irlandois! oui, ces sont
les Cossaques d’Angleterre.’
I could not help laughing at the interpretation, when suddenly my own
name was called out loudly by some person from the ranks. I started
at the sound, and forcing my way through the crowd I looked eagerly on
every side, my heart beating with anxiety lest some deception might have
misled me.
‘Hinton! Jack Hinton!’ cried the voice again. At the head of the
regiment rode three officers, whose looks were bent steadily on me,
while they seemed to enjoy my surprise and confusion. The oldest of the
party, who rode between the two others, was a large swarthy-looking man,
with a long drooping moustache, at that time rarely worn by officers of
our army. His left arm he wore in a sling; but his right was held in a
certain easy, jaunty manner I could not soon forget. A burst of laughter
broke from him at length, as he called out--’ Come, Jack, you must
remember me!’ ‘What!’ cried I,’ O’Grady! Is it possible?’ ‘Even so, my
boy,’ said he, as throwing his reins on his wrist he grasped my hand and
shook it with all his heart. ‘I knew you were here, and I exerted all
my interest to get quartered near you. This is my regiment--eh?--not
fellows to be ashamed of, Jack? But come along with us; we mustn’t part
company now.’
Amid the wildest cries of rejoicing and frantic demonstrations of
gratitude from the crowd, the regiment moved on to the little square
of the village. Here the billets were speedily arranged; the men betook
themselves to their quarters, the officers broke into small parties,
and O’Grady and myself retired to the inn, where, having dined
_tête-à-tête_, we began the interchange of our various adventures since
we parted.
CHAPTER LV. THE FOUR-IN-HAND
My old friend, save in the deeper brown upon his cheek and some scars
from French sabres, was nothing altered from the hour in which we
parted; the same bold, generous temperament, the same blending of
recklessness and deep feeling, the wild spirit of adventure, and the
gentle tenderness of a child were all mixed up in his complex nature,
for he was every inch an Irishman. While the breast of his uniform
glittered with many a cross and decoration, he scarcely ever alluded to
his own feats in the campaign; nor did he more than passingly mention
the actions where his own conduct had been most conspicuous. Indeed,
there was a reserve in his whole manner while speaking of the Peninsular
battles which I soon discovered proceeded from delicacy towards me,
knowing how little I had seen of service owing to my imprisonment, and
fearing lest in the detail of the glorious career of our armies he might
be inflicting fresh wounds on one whose fortune forbade him to share
in it. He often asked me about my father, and seemed to feel deeply the
kindness he had received from him when in London. Of my mother, too, he
sometimes spoke, but never even alluded to Lady Julia; and when once I
spoke of her as the protector of Corny, he fidgeted for a second or two,
seemed uneasy and uncomfortable, and gave me the impression that he felt
sorry to be reduced to accept a favour for his servant, where he himself
had been treated with coldness and distance.
Apart from this--and it was a topic we mutually avoided--O’Grady’s
spirits were as high as ever. Mixing much with the officers of his
corps, he was actually beloved by them. He joined in all their schemes
of pleasure and amusement with the zest of his own buoyant nature; and
the youngest cornet in the regiment felt himself the Colonel’s inferior
in the gaiety of the mess as much as at the head of the squadrons.
At the end of a few days I received from Paris the papers necessary
to relieve me from the restraint of my parole, and was concerting
with O’Grady the steps necessary to be taken to resume my rank in the
service, when an incident occurred which altered all our plans for the
moment, and, by one of those strange casualties which so often occur in
life, gave a new current to my own fate for ever.
I should mention here, that, amid all the rejoicings which ushered in
the restoration, amid all the flattery by which the allied armies were
received, one portion of the royalists maintained a dogged, ungenial
spirit towards the men by whom their cause was rendered victorious,
and never forgave them the honour of reviving a dynasty to which they
themselves had contributed nothing. These were the old _militaires_ of
Louis xviii.--the men who, too proud or too good-for-nothing to accept
service under the Emperor, had lain dormant during the glorious
career of the French armies, and who now, in their hour of defeat and
adversity, started into life as the representatives of the military
genius of the country. These men, I say, hated the English with a
vindictive animosity which the old Napoleonists could not equal. Without
the generous rivalry of an open foe, they felt themselves humbled by
comparison with the soldiers whose weather-beaten faces and shattered
limbs bore token of a hundred battles, and for the very cause, too, for
which they themselves were the most interested. This ungenerous spirit
found vent for itself in a thousand petty annoyances, which were
practised upon our troops in every town and village of the north of
France; and every officer whose billet consigned him to the house of
a royalist soldier would gladly have exchanged his quarters for the
companionship of the most inveterate follower of Napoleon. To an
instance of what I have mentioned was owing the incident which I am
about to relate.
To relieve the ennui of a French village, the officers of the Eighteenth
had, with wonderful expenditure of skill and labour, succeeded in
getting up a four-in-hand drag, which, to the astonishment and wonder
of the natives, was seen daily wending its course through the devious
alleys and narrow streets of the little town, the roof covered with
dashing dragoons, whose laughing faces and loud-sounding bugles were
all deemed so many direct insults by the ill-conditioned section I have
mentioned. The unequivocal evidences of dislike they exhibited to this
dashing ‘turn-out’ formed, I believe, one of its great attractions to
the Eighteenth, who never omitted an occasion, whatever the state of the
weather, to issue forth every day, with all the noise and uproar they
could muster.
At last, however, the old _commissaire de police_, whose indignation
at the proceeding knew no bounds, devised an admirable expedient for
annoying our fellows--one which, supported as it was by the law of the
country, there was no possibility of evading. This was to demand the
passport of every officer who passed the _barrière_, thus necessitating
him to get down from the roof of the coach, present his papers, and have
them carefully conned and scrutinised, their _visés_ looked into, and
all sorts of questions propounded.
When it is understood that the only drive led through one or other of
these barriers, it may be imagined how provoking and vexatious such a
course of proceeding became. Representations were made to the mayor
ever and anon, explaining that the passports once produced no further
inconvenience should be incurred; but all to no purpose. Any one who
knows France will acknowledge how totally inadequate a common-sense
argument is in the decision of a question before a government
functionary. The mayor, too, was a royalist, and the matter was decided
against us.
Argument and reason having failed, the gallant Eighteenth came to
the resolution to try force; and accordingly it was decided that next
morning we should charge the _barrière_ in full gallop, as it was
rightly conjectured that no French employé would feel disposed to
encounter the rush of a four-in-hand, even with the law on his side. To
render the _coup de main_ more brilliant, and perhaps, too, to give an
air of plausibility to the infraction, four dashing thoroughbred
light chestnuts--two of the number having never felt a collar in their
lives--were harnessed for the occasion. A strong force of the wildest
spirits of the regiment took their places on the roof; and amid a cheer
that actually made the street ring, and a tantarara from the trumpets,
the equipage dashed through the town, the leaders bounding with the
swingle-bars every moment over their backs. Away we went, the populace
flying in terror on every side, and every eye turned towards the
_barrière_, where the dignified official stood, in the calm repose of
his station, as if daring us to transgress his frontier. Already had he
stepped forward with his accustomed question. The words, ‘Messieurs,
je vous demande,’ had just escaped his lips, when he had barely time
to spring into his den as the furious leaders tore past, the pavement
crashing beneath their hoofs, and shouts of laughter mingling with the
uproar.
[Illustration: 3-132]
Having driven for a league or so at a slow pace, to breathe our cattle,
we turned homewards, rejoicing in the success of our scheme, which had
fully satisfied our expectations. What was our chagrin, however, as
we neared the _barrière_, to discover that a strong force of mounted
gendarmes stopped the way, their drawn sabres giving us plainly to
understand the fate that awaited our horses if we persisted in our plan!
What was to be done? To force a passage under the circumstances was only
to give an opportunity to the gendarmerie they were long anxious for, to
cut our whole equipage in pieces. To yield was the only alternative; but
what an alternative!--to be laughed at by the whole town on the very day
of our victory!
‘I have it!’ said O’Grady, who sat on the box beside the driver--‘I have
it, lads! Pull up when they tell you, and do as they direct.’
With some difficulty the four dashing nags were reined in as we came up
to the _barrière_; and the commissaire, bursting with passion, appeared
at the door of the lodge, and directed us to get down.
‘Your passports will avail little on the present occasion,’ said he
insolently, as we produced our papers. ‘Your carriage and horses
are confiscated. St. Omer has now privilege as a fortified town. The
fortresses of France enforce a penalty of forty thousand francs----’
A burst of laughter from the bystanders at our rueful faces prevented us
hearing the remainder of the explanation. Meanwhile, to our horror
and disgust, some half-dozen gendarmes, with their long caps and heavy
boots, were crawling up the sides of the drag, and taking their seats
upon the top. Some crept into the interior, and showed their grinning
faces at the windows; others mounted into the rumble; and two more
aspiring spirits ascended to the box, by one of whom O’Grady was rudely
ordered to get down, a summons enforced by the commissaire himself in
a tone of considerable insolence. O’Grady’s face for a minute or two
seemed working with a secret impulse of fun and devilment which I
could not account for at such a moment, as he asked, in a voice of much
humility--
‘Does Monsieur the Commissaire require me to come down?’
‘Instantly,’ roared the Frenchman, whose passion was now boiling over.
‘In that case, gentlemen, take charge of the team.’ So saying, he handed
the reins to the passive gendarmes, who took them, without well knowing
why. ‘I have only a piece of advice,’ continued Phil, as he slowly
descended the side--‘keep a steady hand on the near-side leader, and
don’t let the bar strike her; and now, good-bye.’
He flourished his four-in-hand whip as he spoke, and with one tremendous
cut came down on the team, from leader to wheeler, accompanying the
stroke with a yell there was no mistaking. The heavy carriage bounded
from the earth as the infuriated cattle broke away at full gallop. A
narrow street and a sharp angle lay straight in front; but few of those
on the drag waited for the turn, as at every step some bearskin shako
shot into the air, followed by a tall figure, whose heavy boots seemed
ill-adapted for flying in. The corporal himself had abandoned the reins,
and held on manfully by the rail of the box. On every side they fell,
in every attitude of distress. But already the leaders had reached the
corner; round went the swingle-bars, the wheelers followed, the coach
rocked to one side, sprang clean off the pavement, came down with a
crash, and then fell right over, while the maddened horses, breaking
away, dashed through the town, the harness in fragments behind them, and
the pavement flying at every step.
The immediate consequences of this affair were some severe bruises,
and no small discouragement to the gendarmerie of St. Omer; the
remoter ones, an appeal from the municipal authorities to the
Commander-in-chief, by whom the matter was referred for examination
to the Adjutant-General. O’Grady was accordingly summoned to Paris
to explain, if he could, his conduct in the matter. The order for his
appearance there came down at once, and I, having nothing to detain me
at St. Omer, resolved to accompany my friend for a few days at least,
before I returned to England. Our arrangements were easily made; and the
same night we received the Adjutant-General’s letter we started by post
for Paris.
CHAPTER LVI. ST. DENIS
We were both suddenly awakened from a sound sleep in the _calèche_ by
the loud cracking of the postillion’s whip, the sounds of street noises,
and the increased rattle of the wheels over the unequal pavement. We
started up just as, turning round in his saddle and pointing with his
long whip to either side of him, the fellow called out--
‘Paris, Messieurs, Paris! This is Faubourg St. Denis; there before you
lies the Rue St. Denis. _Sacristi!_ the streets are as crowded as at
noonday.’
By this time we had rubbed the sleep from our eyelids and looked
about us, and truly the scene before us was one to excite all our
astonishment. The Quartier St. Denis was then in the occupation of
the Austrian troops, who were not only billeted in the houses, but
bivouacked in the open streets--their horses picketed in long files
along the _pavé_, the men asleep around their watch-fires, or burnishing
arms and accoutrements beside them. The white-clad cuirassier from the
Danube, the active and sinewy Hungarian, the tall and swarthy Croat were
all there, mixed up among groups of peasant girls coming in to market
with fowls and eggs. Carts of forage and waggons full of all manner of
provisions were surrounded by groups of soldiers and country-people,
trading amicably with one another as though the circumstances which had
brought them together were among the ordinary events of commerce.
Threading our way slowly through these, we came upon the Jager
encampment, their dark-green uniform and brown carbines giving that
air of _sombre_ to their appearance so striking after the steel-clad
cuirassier and the bright helmets of the dragoons. Farther on, around
a fountain, were a body of dismounted dragoons, their tall colbacks
and scarlet trousers bespeaking them Polish lancers; their small but
beautifully formed white horses pawed the ground, and splashed the
water round them, till the dust and foam rose high above them. But
the strangest of all were the tall, gigantic figures, who, stretched
alongside of their horses, slept in the very middle of the wide street.
Lifting their heads lazily for a moment, they gazed on us as we passed,
and then lay down again to sleep. Their red beards hung in masses far
down upon their breasts, and their loose trousers of a reddish dye but
half concealed boots of undressed skin. Their tall lances were piled
around them; but these were not wanting to prove that the savage,
fierce-looking figures before us were the Cossacks of the Don, thus
come for many a hundred mile to avenge the slaughter of Borodino and the
burning of Moscow. As we penetrated farther into the city, the mixture
of nation and costume became still more remarkable. The erect and
soldierlike figure of the Prussian; the loose, wild-eyed Tartar; the
brown-clad Russian, with russet beard and curved sabre; the stalwart
Highlander, with nodding plume and waving tartan; the Bashkir, with
naked scimitar; the gorgeous hussar of Hungary; the tall and manly form
of the English guardsman--all passed and repassed before us, adding, by
the babel of discordant sound, to the wild confusion of the scene.
It was a strange sight to see the savage soldier from the steppes of
Russia, the dark-eyed, heavy-browed Gallician, the yellow-haired Saxon,
the rude native of the Caucasus, who had thus given themselves a
rendezvous in the very heart of European civilisation, wandering
about--now stopping to admire some magnificent palace, now gazing with
greedy wonder at the rich display of some jeweller, or the costly and
splendid dresses which were exhibited in the shop windows; while here
and there were gathered groups of men whose looks of undisguised hate
and malignity were bent unceasingly upon the moving mass. Their
_bourgeois_ dress could not conceal that they were the old soldiers of
the Empire--the men of Wagram, of Austerlitz, of Jena, and of Wilna--who
now witnessed within their own capital the awful retribution of their
own triumphant aggressions.
As the morning advanced the crowds increased, and as we approached the
Place du Carrousel, regiments poured in from every street to the morning
parade. Among these the Russian _garde_--the _Bonnets d’or_--were
conspicuous for the splendour of their costume and the soldierlike
precision of their movements, the clash of their brass cymbals and
the wild strains of their martial music adding indescribably to their
singular appearance. As the infantry drew up in line, we stopped to
regard them, when from the Place Louis Quinze the clear notes of a
military band rang out a quick step, and the Twenty-eighth British
marched in to the air of ‘The Young May Moon.’ O’Grady’s excitement
could endure no longer. He jumped up in the _calèche_, and, waving his
hat above his head, gave a cheer that rang through the long corridor
beneath the Louvre. The Irish regiment caught up the cry, and a yell
as wild as ever rose above the din of battle shook the air. A Cossack
picket then cantering up suddenly halted, and, leaning down upon their
horses’ manes, seemed to listen; then dashing spurs into their horses’
flanks they made the circuit of the Place at full gallop, while their
‘Hurra!’ burst forth with all the wild vehemence of their savage nature.
‘We shall get into some precious scrape with all this,’ said O’Grady,
as, overcome with laughing, he fell back into the _calèche_.
Such was my own opinion; so telling the postillion to turn short into
the next street we hurried away unperceived, and drove with all the
speed we could muster for the Rue St. Honoré. The Hôtel de la Paix
fortunately had room for us; and ordering our breakfasts we adjourned to
dress, each resolving to make the most of his few hours at Paris.
I had just reached the breakfast-room, and was conning over the morning
papers, when O’Grady entered in full uniform, his face radiant with
pleasure, and the same easy, jaunty swagger in his walk as on the first
day I met him.
‘When do you expect to have your audience, Phil?’ said I.
‘I have had it, my boy. It’s all over, finished, completed. Never was
anything so successful I talked over the old Adjutant in such a strain,
that, instead of dreaming about a court-martial on us, the worthy man is
seriously bent on our obtaining compensation for the loss of the drag.
He looked somewhat serious as I entered; but when once I made him laugh,
the game was my own. I wish you had seen him wiping his dear old eyes
as I described the covey of gendarmes taking the air. However, the main
point is, the regiment is to be moved up to Paris, the commissaire is
to receive a reprimand, our claim for some ten thousand francs is to be
considered, and I am to dine with the Adjutant to-day and tell the story
after dinner.’
‘Do you know, Phil, I have a theory that an Irishman never begins
to prosper but just at the moment that any one else would surely be
ruined.’
‘Don’t make a theory of it, Jack, for it may turn out unlucky. But the
practice is pretty much what you represent it. Fortune never treats
people so well as when they don’t care a fig about her. She’s exactly
like a lady patroness--confoundedly impertinent if you’ll bear it, but
all smiles if you won’t. Have you ever met Tom Burke--“Burke of Ours,”
as they call him, I believe, in half the regiments in the service?’
‘No, never.’
‘Well, the loss is yours. Tom’s a fine fellow in his way; and if you
could get him to tell you his story--or rather one of his stories, for
his life is a succession of them--perhaps you would find that this same
theory of yours has some foundation. Well pick him up one of these days,
and I’ll introduce you. But now, Jack, I have a piece of news for you.
What do you think of it, my lad?--Lady Charlotte Hinton ‘s at Paris.’
‘My mother here? Is it possible?’
‘Yes. Her ladyship resides No. 4 Place Vendôme, opposite the Hôtel de
Londres. There’s accuracy for you.’
‘And who is with her? My father?’
‘No. The General is expected in a few days. Lady Julia, I believe, is
her only companion.’
There was a kind of reserve suddenly in O’Grady’s manner as he mentioned
this name, which made us both pause for a few seconds. At length he
broke the awkwardness of the silence by saying, in his usual laughing
way--
‘I contrived to pick up all the gossip of Paris in half an hour.
The town is full of English--and such English too! The Cossacks are
civilised people, of quiet, retiring habits, compared to them. I verily
believe the French are more frightened by our conviviality than
ever they were by the bayonets of the Allies. I’m dying to hear your
lady-mother’s account of everything here.’
‘What say you, then, if you come along with me? I ‘m becoming very
impatient to see my people once more. Julia will, I ‘m certain, be very
amusing.’
‘Ah, and I have a debt of gratitude in that quarter,’ said O’Grady
hesitatingly. ‘Lady Julia was so very kind as to extend her protection
to that old villain Corny. I cannot for the life of me understand how
she endured him.’
‘As to that,’ said I, ‘Julia has a taste for character; and not even the
Chevalier Delany’s eccentricity would pain her. So let’s forward.’
‘Did I tell you that De Vere is here?’ said O’Grady.
‘No; not with my friends, I trust?’
‘On the contrary, I ascertained that he does not visit at Lady
Charlotte’s. He is attached to Lord Cathcart’s embassy; he’s very little
in society, and rarely to be seen but at the salon, where he plays
tremendously high, loses every night, but reappears each day with a
replenished pocket. But I intend to know the secret of all this, and of
many other matters, ere long. So now let us proceed.’
CHAPTER LVII. PARIS IN 1814
If the strange medley of every nation and costume which we beheld on
entering Paris surprised us, how much greater was our astonishment when,
having finished a hurried breakfast, we issued forth into the crowded
streets! Here were assembled, among the soldiers of every country,
visitors from all parts of Europe, attracted by the novel spectacle
thus presented to them, and eager to participate in the pleasures of a
capital whose rejoicings, so far from being checked by the sad reverse
of fortune, were now at the highest pitch; and the city much more
resembled the gay resort of an elated people than a town occupied by
the troops of conquering enemies. The old soldier of the Empire alone
grieved in the midst of this general joy; with the downfall of Napoleon
died his every hope. The spirit of conquest, by which for so many years
the army had been intoxicated, was annihilated by the one line that
signed the treaty of Fontainebleau. Thus among the gay and laughing
groups that hurried onward might now and then be seen some veteran of
the Old Guard scowling with contemptuous look upon that fickle populace,
as eager to celebrate the downfall as ever they had been to greet the
glory of their nation.
Nothing more strikingly marked the incongruous host that filled the city
than the different guards of honour which were mounted at the several
hotels where officers and generals of distinction resided. At this time
the regulation was not established which prevailed somewhat later, and
gave to the different armies of the Allies the duty of mounting all the
guards in rotation. Thus at one door might be seen the tall cuirassier
of Austria, his white cloak falling in heavy folds over the flank and
haunches of his coal-black horse, looking like some Templar of old; at
another the plumed bonnet of a Highlander fluttered in the breeze, as
some hardy mountaineer paced to and fro, his grey eye and stern look
unmoved by the eager and prying gaze of the crowd that stopped to look
upon so strange and singular a costume. Here was the impatient schimmel
of some Hungarian hussar pawing the ground with restless eagerness, as
his gay dolman slashed with gold glittered in the sun. The Jager from
Bohemia, the deadly marksman with the long rifle, the savage Tartar
of the Ukraine devouring his meal on his guard, and turning his
dark suspicious eye around him, lest every passer-by might mean some
treachery--all denoted that some representative of their country dwelt
within; while every now and then the clank of a musket would be heard,
as a heavy _porte cochere_ opened to permit the passage of an equipage,
as strange and as characteristic as the guard himself. Here would issue
the heavy waggon of some German prince, with emblazoned panels and
scarlet hammer-doth, the horses as fat and lethargic as the smoking
and moustached figure they were drawing; there was a low drosky of a
Russian, three horses abreast, their harness tinkling with brass bells
as the spirited animals plunged and curvetted along. The quiet and
elegant-looking phaeton of English build, with its perfection of
appointment, rolled along with its deep woody sound beside the quaint,
old-fashioned _calèche_ of Northern Germany, above whose cumbrous
side-panels only the heads of the passengers were visible. Nor were the
horsemen less dissimilar; the stately Prussian, with his heel _à plomb_
beneath his elbow; the Cossack, with short stirrups, crouched upon
his horse’s mane; the English horse artilleryman powdering along with
massive accoutrements and gigantic steed; the Polish light cavalry
soldier, standing high in his stirrups, and turning his restless eye on
every side--all were subjects for our curiosity and wonder.
The novelty of the spectacle seemed, however, to have greatly worn off
for the Parisians, who rarely noticed the strange and uncouth figures
that every moment passed before their eyes, and now talked away as
unconcernedly amid the scene of tumult and confusion as though nothing
new or remarkable was going on about them--their very indifference and
insouciance one of the strangest sights we witnessed.
Our progress, which at the first was a slow one, ceased entirely at
the corner of the palace, where a considerable crowd was now collected.
Although we asked of the bystanders, no one could tell what was going
forward; but the incessant roars of laughter showed that something droll
or ridiculous had occurred. O’Grady, whose taste in such matters would
suffer no denial, elbowed his way through the mob, I following as well
as I was able. When we reached the first rank of the spectators, we
certainly needed no explanation of the circumstances to make us join in
the mirth about us.
It was a single combat of a very remarkable description. A tall Cossack,
with a long red beard now waving wildly on every side, was endeavouring
to recover his mutcka cap from a little decrepit old fellow, from whom
he had stolen a basket of eggs. The eggs were all broken on the
ground; and the little man danced among them like an infuriated fiend,
flourishing a stick all the while in the most fearful fashion. The
Cossack, whose hand at every moment sought the naked knife that was
stuck in his girdle, was obliged to relinquish his weapon by the groans
of the mob, who unequivocally showed that they would not permit foul
play, and being thus unarmed, could make nothing of an adversary whose
contemptible appearance caused all the ridicule of the scene. Meanwhile
the little fellow, his clothes in rags, and his head surmounted by a
red Cossack mutcka, capered about like nothing human, uttering the most
frightful sounds of rage and passion; at length, in a paroxysm of fury,
he dealt the tall Cossack a rap on the temples which made him reel
again. Scarcely had the blow descended, when, stung by the insult and
the jeers of the mob, the enraged savage grasped his knife; with one
spring he pounced upon the little man; but as he did so a strong hand
from behind seized him by the collar, and with one tremendous jerk
hurled him back upon the crowd, where he fell stunned and senseless.
[Illustration: 3-143]
I had only time to perceive that it was O’Grady who had come to the
rescue, when the little old fellow, turning fully round, looked up in
his protector’s face, and, without evincing any emotion of surprise or
wonder or even of gratitude, croaked out--
‘And it’s standin’ looking on ye wor all the time, and I fighting my
sowle out! Ugh! bad luck to service! Look at my coat and small-clothes!
Ay, you might laugh, ye grinning bastes as ye are--and a basket of fresh
eggs in smithereens, and this Friday!’
The convulsions of laughter which this apparition and the speech excited
prevented our hearing more. The mob, too, without understanding a word,
were fully sensible of the absurdity of the scene, and a perfect chorus
of laughter rang through the street.
‘And my elegant beaver, see it now!’ said Corny--for we hope our
reader recognises him--as he endeavoured to empty the batter from his
head-piece, and restore it to shape. ‘Ugh! the Haythins! the Turks! see
now, Master Phil, it’s warning I’m giving you this minit--here, where
I stand. May the divil---- Ah, if ye dare, ye eternal robber!’ This
elegant exordium was directed to the poor Cossack, who, having regained
his feet, was skulking away from the field, throwing as he went a
lingering look at his red cap, which Mr. Delany still wore as a spoil of
his victory.
We now made our way through the crowd, followed by Corny, whose angry
looks on every side elicited peals of laughter; and thus accompanied
we approached the massive _porte cochère_ of a large hotel in the Place
Vendôme, where a Swiss, in full costume of porter, informed us that Lady
Charlotte Hinton resided. While I endeavoured to pass on, he interposed
his burly person, informing me, in very short phrase, that her ladyship
did not receive before four o’clock.
‘Arrah, hould your prate!’ cried Corny; sure it’s the woman’s son you’re
talking to. Two pair of stairs to your left hand, and the first door
in the passage. Look at the crowd there, the lazy craytures! that has
nothing better to do than follow a respectable man. Be off! bad luck to
yez! ye ought to be crying over the disgrace ye’re in. Be the light that
shines! but you desarved it well.’
Leaving Corny to his oration before the mob, of which, happily for the
safety of his own skin, they did not comprehend one word, I took the
direction he mentioned, and soon found out the door, on which a visiting
card with my mother’s name was fastened.
We were now introduced into a large and splendidly furnished saloon,
with all that lightness and elegance of decoration which in a foreign
apartment is the compensation--a poor one sometimes--for the more
comfortable look of our English houses. The room was empty, but the
morning papers and all the new publications of the day were scattered
about with profusion. Consigning my friend for a short time to these, I
followed the _femme de chambre_, who had already brought in my card
to my mother, to her ladyship’s dressing-room. The door was opened
noiselessly by the maid, who whispered my name. A gentle ‘Let him come
in’ followed, and I entered.
[Illustration: 3-147]
My mother was seated before a glass, under the hands of a coiffeur,
and dared not turn her head. As I approached she reached me her hand,
however, which having kissed dutifully, I drew my chair, and sat down
beside her. ‘My dear boy!’ said she, as her eyes turned towards me, and
a tear fell from the lid and trickled down her cheek. In spite of the
unnatural coldness of such a meeting, the words, the accents, and the
look that accompanied them came home to my heart, and I was glad to hide
my emotion by again pressing my lips to her hand. Having kindly informed
me that the ceremony she was then submitting to was imperative,
inasmuch as if she had not M. Dejoncourt then, she could not have him at
all--that his time was so filled up, every moment of it, from eight in
the morning till eleven at night, that the Emperor Alexander himself
couldn’t obtain his services, if he wished for them--she proceeded to
give me some details of my father, by which I could learn that the
change in his circumstances had never been made known to her, and that
she had gone on since we last met in her old career of extravagance and
expense, the indulgence of which, and the cares of her ever-declining
health, having given her abundant occupation.
As I looked at her beautiful features and delicately fair complexion,
upon which time had scarcely laid a touch, I sighed to think at what
a frightful sacrifice of feeling, of duty, and of happiness, too, such
loveliness had been purchased. If the fine pencilling of that brow had
never known a wrinkle, the heart had never throbbed to one high or holy
thought; if the smile sat easily on the lip, it was the habitual garb of
fashionable captivation, and not the indication of one kind thought
or one affectionate feeling. I felt shocked, too, that I could thus
criticise my mother; but in truth for a minute or two I forgot she was
such.
‘And Julia,’ said I, at length--‘what of her?’
‘Very handsome indeed--strikingly so. Beulwitz, the emperor’s
aide-de-camp, admires her immensely. I am sincerely glad that you are
come, dear John. You know Julia’s fortune has all been saved: but of
that another time. The first point now is to secure you a ticket for
this ball; and how to do it, I’m sure I know not.’
‘My dear mother, believe me I have not the slightest desire----’
‘How very unkind you are to think we could separate from you after such
an absence! Besides, Julia would be seriously offended, and I think with
cause. But the ticket--let’s consider about that. Dejoncourt, is it
true that the Princesse de Nassau was refused a card for the ball?’
‘Oui, miladi. The King of Prussia has sent her one of his, and is to
take her; and Madame la Duchesse de St. Bieve was so angry at being left
out that she tried to get up an alarm of conspiracy in the _faubourg_,
to prevent the sovereigns from going.’
‘But they will go, surely--won’t they?’
‘Ah, to be sure. _Pardieu_, they would say to-morrow that they had been
omitted too, if they didn’t appear.’
‘What are we to do?’ said her ladyship with energy. ‘Grammont can be of
no use here; for unfortunately these people are not French.’
‘What then,’ said I, ‘is it some of the crowned heads who are the
entertainers?’
‘Oh, no! Indeed, I don’t know who they are; nor do I know any one
who does. The only fact of importance is that this is their third
_fête_--the first two were the most brilliant things ever given in
Paris; that the Emperor of Russia always dances there; that the King of
Prussia makes his whist-party; that Blucher takes the head of one of
the supper-tables; and, in a word, Talleyrand himself has employed
more diplomacy to secure an extra ticket than he has often dispensed in
carving out a new monarchy.’
My mother handed me a splendidly embossed card, as she spoke, upon
which, in letters of pale burnished gold, were inscribed the following
words: ‘Madame de Roni, née Cassidy de Kilmainham, prie honneur,’ etc.
A burst of laughter at the absurdity of the title stopped my reading
further.
‘She’s an Italian, possibly,’ said my mother.
‘I should think not,’ I replied; ‘the “née Cassidy de Kilmainham”
smacks of something nearer home. What think you of Ireland?’
‘Ireland! Are these people Irish?’ said she, starting with horror at the
thought. ‘I trust, my dear John, you would not think it proper to jest
on such a subject.’
‘My dear mother, I never heard of them before; the only thing that
strikes me is the name. “Cassidy” is assuredly more Milesian than
Roman.’
‘But she has birth--that’s certain,’ replied my mother proudly.
Not caring to argue the point, which after all resolved itself into the
question that the lady was the child of somebody, and that somebody was
called ‘Cassidy,’ I began to meditate on the singularity of such a phase
in life as the entertainers of sovereigns, kaisers, kings, princes,
archdukes, and ambassadors being a person utterly unknown.
‘But here’s Grammont,’ said my mother, as a gentle tap was heard at the
door and the Count entered--the only change in his appearance since last
I saw him being the addition of another cordon to his blue coat, and a
certain springiness in his walk, which I afterwards remarked as common
among all the returned _émigrés_ at the restoration.
‘Que diable faut il faire,’ said the Count, entering, ‘with this Madame
de Roni? She refuses all the world. Ah, Jack, _mon cher_, how do you
do?--safe and sound from all the perils of these terrible French, who
cut you all to pieces in the Peninsula? But only think, _miladi_, no
card for la Duchesse de Tavenne; Madame de Givry left out! _Sapristi!_ I
hope there is nothing against _ce pauvre_ Roi de Prusse.’
‘Well, and here is John,’ said my mother; ‘what are we to do about him?’
My renewed disclaimer of any wish in the matter was cut short by a look
of reproof, and I waited the whole discussion with patience.
‘Never was there such a difficulty,’ said the Count, musing. ‘There
is certainly nothing to be done through the worthy husband of Madame.
Dejoncourt and two or three more gave him a _diner en gourmand_ at
Very’s, to seduce him; and after his fifth flask of champagne he frankly
confessed he was sorry he could not return their civilities as he
wished. I ‘ll entertain you here, and have Blucher and Platon, Fouché,
and any one else you like to meet you. I’ll introduce you to old Prussia
and the Czar whenever you please; you shall have permission to shoot
at Fontainebleau any day you mention; but as to Madame de Roni, she is
devilish exclusive. I really cannot manage that for you.’
‘I wish you could prevail on yourself to be serious,’ said my mother, in
nowise pleased with the jocular spirit the Count’s anecdote had excited.
‘But here is Julia--what does she advise?’
As my mother spoke, the door opened, and my cousin appeared. Her figure
had more of the roundness of womanhood, and her face, though paler, was
fuller, and its expression had assumed a more decided character than
when I last saw her. Her winning smile and her graceful carriage
were all unchanged; and her low soft voice never struck me as more
fascinating than when she held out her hand and said--
‘My dear cousin, how happy it makes me to see you again!’
Her dark-blue eyes were tearful as she spoke, and her lip--that haughty
lip--trembled. A strange wild thrill crept through my heart as I pressed
her hand within both of mine--a vague feeling which I dared not suffer
to dwell in my mind, and yet feared lest when it should depart that I
had lost my chance of happiness. Yes, there are times when a man without
the admixture of any coxcombry in the feeling, without a particle
of vanity--nay, with a deep sense of his own un worthiness--can ask
himself, ‘Does this woman like me?’ And at such moments, if his own
heart give not the ready answer, it were far better that he sought not
the reply from his reason.
It was only when my mother asked, for the second time, what was to be
done about John’s ticket, that Julia seemed aware of the question--a
slight, a very slight, curving of her lip showing the while the sense
she entertained of such an inquiry after long years of separation; and
at last, as if unable to repress the indignation of the moment, she said
abruptly--
‘But, of course, as we shall not think of going tonight----’
‘We not go! Eh, _pardieu!_ why not?’ said the Count.
‘The Colonel below-stairs begs to say that he will call somewhat later,’
said the _femme de chambre_ at this juncture.
‘The Colonel! Whom does she mean?’
‘Oh, my friend O’Grady. Poor fellow! I have been forgetting him all this
while. So allow me to join him, and well wait for your appearance in the
drawing-room.’
‘I remember him perfectly,’ said my mother--‘an agreeable person, I
think. So take Julia and the Count with you, and I’ll follow as soon as
I can.’
Julia blushed deeply, and as suddenly grew pale again as my mother
spoke. I knew that she had always treated my friend with hauteur and
reserve, without any assignable reason, and had long determined that
when an opportunity arose I would endeavour to get rid of the unjust
impression she had somehow conceived of my warmest, truest friend. This
was not, however, the time for explanations; and I merely said, as I
offered my arm--
‘Poor O’Grady has been badly wounded; but I think he’s now getting on
favourably.’
She said something in reply, but the words were lost in the noise of
descending the stairs. Just as we reached the landing I caught a glimpse
of my friend issuing from the _porte cochère_, and only in time to call
him by his name--
‘Holloa, Phil! Don’t go away.’
As he turned back towards the drawing-room, he cried out--
‘It’s only this instant, Jack, I remembered how very awkward it was of
me to come here with you at this hour. You have, of course, so much to
say and hear after your absence--’
The sight of my fair cousin cut short his speech, as she stood near the
door with her hand out to receive him. As O’Grady took her taper fingers
within his own, there was an air of cold distance in his manner that
actually offended me. Bowing deeply, he said a few brief words in a tone
of gravity and stiffness quite unusual with him; and then, turning to
Grammont, he shook the Count’s hand with a warmth and cordiality most
markedly different. I only dared to glance at Julia; but as I did so
I could mark an expression of haughty displeasure that settled on her
brow, while her heightened colour made her turn away towards the window.
I was myself so much annoyed by the manner in which O’Grady had received
advances which I had never seen made to any one before, that I was
silent. Even Grammont saw the awkwardness of all parties so much in need
of his intervention that he at once opened the whole negotiation of the
ball to O’Grady, describing with a Frenchman’s volubility and sarcasm
the stratagems and devices which were employed to obtain invitations,
the triumph of the successful, the despairing malice of the
unfortunate--heightening his narrative by the mystery of the fair
hostess, who, herself unknown and unheard of till now, was at this
moment at the pinnacle of fashion, dictating the laws and distributing
the honours of the beau monde to the greatest sovereigns of Europe.
‘She is very beautiful, no doubt?’ asked O’Grady.
‘Oui, pas mal,’ said Grammont, with that all-explaining shrug of the
shoulders by which a foreigner conveys so much.
‘Very rich, perhaps?’
‘Millionaire!’ said the Frenchman, in a tone of exultation that bespoke
his full acquiescence in that surmise at least.
‘And her rank?’
‘Ah, I don’t read riddles. All I know is, her house is the best thing at
Paris; she has secured old Cambaceres’ _chef de cuisine_; has bought up
the groom of the chambers of the ex-Emperor; keeps an _estafette_ going
on the Strasbourg road for _pâtés de foie gras_; and is on such terms
with the sovereigns that she has their private bands to play at all her
parties. Que voulez-vous?’
‘Nothing more, indeed!’ said O’Grady, laughing. ‘Such admirable
supremacy in the world of _bon ton_ it would be rank heresy to
question further, and I no longer wonder at the active canvass for her
invitations.’
‘Oui, parbleu!’ said the Frenchman gaily. ‘If Monsieur the Comte
d’Artois does not exert himself, people will be more proud of a ticket
to these balls than of the Croix de St. Louis. For my own part, I think
of wearing mine over the cordon.’
As he spoke, he flourished his card of invitation in the air, and
displayed it in his bosom.
‘Madame de Roni, née Cassidy de Kilmainham,’ said O’Grady, bursting into
a perfect roar of laughter. ‘This is glorious, Jack! Did you see this?’
‘See! eh? to be sure; and what then?’
But O’Gradys mirth had burst all bounds, and he sat back in an arm-chair
laughing immoderately. To all our questions he could give no other reply
than renewed bursts of merriment, which, however enjoyed by himself,
were very provoking to us.
‘He knows her,’ whispered Grammont in my ear; ‘be assured he knows
Madame.’
‘Jack, where shall we meet in half an hour?’ said Phil at length,
jumping up and wiping his eyes.
‘Here, if you like,’ said I. ‘I shall not leave this till you return.’
‘Be it so,’ said he; and then with a bow to my cousin and an easy nod to
Grammont, O’Grady took his hat and departed.
Grammont now looked at his watch, and remembering some half-dozen very
important appointments, took his leave also, leaving me once more, after
so long an interval, _tête-à-tête_ with Julia.
There were so many things to talk over since we had met, so many
reminiscences which each moment called up, that I never thought of the
hours as they ran over; and it was only by Lady Charlotte’s appearance
in the drawing-room that we were apprised it was already past four
o’clock, and that the tide of her morning visitors would now set in, and
break up all hopes of continuing our colloquy.
‘Where is your friend?’ said my mother, as she carried her eyes
languidly round the spacious apartment.
‘Gone some hours ago; but he promised to take me up here. We shall see
him soon, I suspect.’
‘Colonel O’Grady,’ said a servant; and my cousin had just time to leave
the room by one door as he entered by another.
Advancing to my mother with a manner of respectful ease which he
possessed in perfection, O’Grady contrived in a few brief words to
resume the ground he had formerly occupied in her acquaintance, throwing
out as he went an occasional compliment to her looks, so naturally and
unaffectedly done as not to need acknowledgment or reply, but yet with
sufficient _empressement_ to show interest.
‘I have heard since my arrival that you were interested about this ball,
and took the opportunity to secure you some tickets, which, though late,
some of your friends may care for.’
He presented my mother as he spoke with several blank cards of
invitation, who, as she took them, could not conceal her astonishment
nor repress the look of curiosity, which she could scarcely repel in
words, as to how he had accomplished a task the highest people in Paris
had failed in. I saw what was passing in her mind, and immediately
said--
‘My mother would like to know your secret about these same cards,
O’Grady; for they have been a perfect subject of contention here for the
last three weeks.’
‘Her ladyship must excuse me--at least for the present--if I have one
secret I cannot communicate to her,’ said O’Grady, smiling. ‘Let me only
assure her that no one shall know it before she herself does.’
‘And there is a secret?’ said Lady Charlotte eagerly.
‘Yes, there is a secret,’ replied O’Grady, with a most ludicrous gravity
of tone.
‘Well, at least we have profited by it, and so we may wait in patience.
Your friend Colonel O’Grady will give us the pleasure of his company at
dinner, I hope,’ continued my mother, with her most winning smile.
O’Grady declined, having already accepted the invitation of the
Adjutant-General, but begged he might be permitted to join our party at
the ball--which being graciously acceded to by my mother, we both made
our bows, and sauntered out to see more of the sights of Paris.
‘Come, Phil,’ said I, when we were once more alone, ‘what is the secret?
Who is Madame de Roni?’
‘Not even to you, Jack,’ was his answer, and we walked on in silence.
CHAPTER LVIII THE RONI FÊTE
There is no epidemic more catching than excitement. The fussy manner
and feverish bustle of the people about you are sure, after a time, to
communicate themselves to you--the very irritation they create being
what the physicians call a predisposing cause. I became an illustration
in point, as the hour of this ball drew nigh. At first I could not but
wonder how in the midst of such stupendous events as were then taking
place--in the heart of a city garrisoned by an enemy, with everything
that could wound national pride and offend national honour--even French
levity could raise itself to the enjoyment of fashionable frivolity; but
by degrees the continual recurrence of the subject familiarised my mind
to it» wearing off my first and more natural impressions, and at last I
began, like my neighbours, not only to listen with patience, but even to
join in the various discussions with animation and interest.
No sooner had the report gained currency that Lady Charlotte was in
possession of blank invitations, than our hotel was besieged by half
Paris--the unfortunate endeavouring, by every species of flattery
and every imaginable stratagem, to obtain tickets; the lucky ones all
anxious to find out the mystery of her ladyship’s success, which at
first seemed almost incredible. The various surmises, guesses,
hints, allusions, and subterfuges which followed one another in rapid
succession, as this motley mob of fashionables came and went, and went
and came again, amused me considerably--the more so, perhaps, as the
occasion called into full play all my cousin Julia’s powers of flippant
raillery and sarcasm, both of which she exercised without scruple, but
never within range of discovery by any of her victims.
Everything gave way to the convenience of this splendid _fête_. The
eight o’clock dinner was anticipated by full two hours; no other subject
of conversation was ever broached by the company; and at nine the
carriages were ordered to the door, it being wisely calculated that
if we reached our destination at eleven we should esteem ourselves
fortunate.
How often, as the dashing equipage whirls past to some scene of
pleasure, where beauty and rank and riches await the sated votary of
fashion, will the glare of the carriage-lamps fall upon the gloomy
footway, where, wet and weary, some melancholy figure steals along
with downcast head and plodding step, his thoughts turned ever to
some accustomed scene of wretchedness, where want and misery, disease,
neglect, decay, all herd together, and not even hope can enter! The
poor man, startled, looks up; the rich one, lolling back upon his easy
cushion, casts a downward glance; their eyes meet--it is but a second;
there is no sympathy between them--the course of one lies north, the
other south. Thus at each moment did my sad heart turn away from all the
splendour of the preparation about me, to wonder with myself how even
for an instant I could forget my own path in life, which, opening with
every prospect of happiness, yet now offered not a hope for the future.
Between these two alternate states the hours crept on. As I sat beside
Julia in the carriage, I could not but mark that something weighed also
on her spirits. More silent than usual, she replied, when spoken to,
with effort; and more than once returned wrong answers to my mother, who
talked away unceasingly of the ball and the guests.
It was near midnight when we drove into the large archway of the Hôtel
de Rohan, where Madame de Roni held her court. Brilliantly lighted with
lamps of various colours, the very equipages were made a part of the
spectacle, as they shone in bright and changeful hues, reflected from
gorgeous housings, gilded trappings, and costly liveries. A large,
dark-coloured travelling-carriage, with a single pair of horses, stood
in the corner of the court, the only thing to distinguish it being two
mounted light dragoons who waited beside it, and a chasseur in green and
gold uniform who stood at the door. This simple equipage belonged to
the King of Prussia. Around on every side were splendidly appointed
carriages, glittering with emblazonry and gilding, from which, as the
guests descended and entered the marble vestibule, names of European
celebrity were called out and repeated from voice to voiqe along the
lofty corridors. Le Prince de Schwartzenberg, Count Pozzo di Borgo,
Le Duc de Dal-berg, Milord Cathcart, Le Comte de Nesselrode, Monsieur
Talleyrand de Perigord, with others equally noble and exalted, followed
in rapid succession.
Our turn came at last; and as we reached the hall we found O’Grady
waiting for our arrival.
‘There ‘s no use in attempting to get forward for some time,’ said he;
‘so follow me, and I’ll secure you a more comfortable place to wait in.’
As he spoke he passed through the hall, and, whispering a few words to a
servant, a door was opened in the wainscot, admitting us to a small and
neatly-fitted-up library, where a good fire and some easy-chairs awaited
us.
‘I see your surprise,’ said O’Grady, as my mother looked about her with
astonishment at his perfect acquaintance with the whole locality; ‘but
I can’t explain--it’s part of my secret. Meanwhile, Jack, I have another
for your ear,’ said he, in a low whisper, as he drew me aside into a
corner. ‘I have made a very singular discovery, Jack, to-day, and I
have a notion it may lead to more. I met, by accident, at the
Adjutant-General’s table, the brother of a French officer whose life I
saved at Nivelle; he remembered my name in a moment, and we became sworn
friends. I accepted his offer of a seat in his carriage to this ball,
and on the way he informed me that he was the chief of the secret police
of Paris, whose business it is to watch all the doings of the regular
police and report upon them to Fouché, whose spies are in every salon
and at every dinner-table in the capital I have no time at present to
repeat any of the extraordinary stories he told me of this horrible
system; but just as we entered the courtyard of this hotel, our carriage
was jammed up in the line and detained for some minutes. Guillemain
suddenly let down the glass, and gave a low, peculiar whistle, which,
if I had not been paying considerable attention to everything about him,
might have escaped my notice. In about a minute after a man, with a
hat slouched over his face, and a large cravat covering his mouth,
approached the carriage. They conversed together for some time, and I
could perceive that the new-comer spoke his French in a broken manner
and with a foreign accent. By a slight movement of the horses one of the
lamps threw the light full upon this man’s face; I fixed my eyes rapidly
on him, and recognised--whom, think you? But you’d never guess: no other
than your old antagonist, Ulick Burke!’
‘Ulick Burke! You must have been mistaken.’
‘No, no. I knew him at once; the light rested on him for full five
minutes, and I had time enough to scan every feature of his face. I
could swear to the man now. He left us at last, and I watched him till
he disappeared among the crowd of servants that filled the courtyard.’
‘“That’s one of your people,” said I carelessly, as Guillemain drew up
the glass, and sat back in the carriage.
‘“Yes, and a thorough scoundrel he is--capable of anything.”
‘“He’s not French,” said I, with the same indifference of manner I had
feigned at first.
‘Guillemain started as I spoke; and I half feared I had destroyed all by
venturing too much. At length, after a short pause, he replied: “You’re
right, he’s not French; but we have them of all nations--Poles, Swedes,
Germans, Italians, Greeks. That fellow is English.”
‘“Say Irish, rather,” said I, determining to risk all, to know all.
‘“You know him, then?” said Guillemain hurriedly; “where did you see
Fitzgerald?”
‘“Fitzgerald!” said I, repeating the name after him; and then affecting
disappointment, added, “That’s not the name.”
‘“Ha! I knew you were mistaken,” said Guillemain, with animation; “the
fellow told me he defies recognition; and I certainly have tried him
often among his countrymen, and he has never been detected. And yet he
knows the English thoroughly and intimately. It was through him that I
first found out these very people we are going to.”
‘Here, Jack, he entered upon a long account of our worthy hosts, who
with great wealth, great pretensions, and as great vulgarity came to
Paris some weeks ago in that mighty flood of all sorts of people that
flocked here since the peace. Their desire to be ranked among the
fashionable entertainers of the day was soon reported to the minister
of police, who, after considering how far such a house might be useful,
where persons of all shades of political opinion might meet--friends of
the Bourbons, Jacobites, Napoleonists, the men of ‘88, and the admirers
of the old _régime_--measures were accordingly taken that their
invitations should go out to the first persons in Paris, and, more
still, should be accepted by them.
‘While these worthy people are therefore distributing their
hospitalities with all the good faith imagina